Lagan Mahurat Jhooth Sab #10

Sahajanand, the human being is a crossroads from which roads lead in every direction. That is our uniqueness. Infinite possibilities stand with their doors open before a human being. A human can become whatever they choose to become. Animals have destiny; the human being has none. A dog is born a dog, will live like a dog, and die like a dog—there is no other way. A human is born like a blank page, no writing on it; what one writes oneself becomes one’s fate. The human being is self-fashioned, one’s own creator.

If elephants, horses, or donkeys go to astrologers, it makes sense. But when a human goes, it makes no sense at all. There is no fixed fate in a human that can be read. A human is born only as infinite potentialities, like infinite seeds. The seed you sow and tend—those are the flowers that will bloom in you. There is no predestining deity. Each moment, by every thought and every act, we are creating ourselves. Therefore, take each step with awareness, live each moment with wakefulness. One who lives in unconsciousness is not truly human.

Sahajanand, there is a small difference between the Sanskrit sutra and your translation. The Sanskrit says: manuṣyatvam—human-ness, human-consciousness; you translated it as “human body.” There the mistake goes deep. The human body is not the human essence. Animals, too, have bodies. What difference is there among bodies? All are toys of clay—fashion them this way or that. “The clay says to the potter, ‘Why do you knead me so?’ A day will come, a moment will arrive when—I will knead you!” One gold can become a thousand ornaments; one clay can become a thousand pots. The body itself has no ultimate value. Whether the body is human, animal, bird, or tree—it makes no essential difference. The original subhāṣita speaks of human-ness. And human-ness is very different from human body. One who is unconscious, though human, is still not truly human. Only one who has awakened has begun to be human. To be human, two births are needed. All animals have only one birth: they are born once and then they die. A human can be dvija—twice-born. To be twice-born is what it means to be a brāhmin.

Dvija means: the first birth is from parents; the second birth is through meditation, through samādhi. Through meditation and samādhi one comes to know one’s inner Brahman. Then the real birth happens.

The first birth will end in death. The first will finish in the grave. The distance between cradle and cremation ground is not much—even if it takes seventy years to reach the grave from the cradle, what are seventy years in the measure of the timeless? Yes, the second birth is true birth, because with it begins a life that has no end. Until you attain the eternal life, know that you have not yet become truly human.

So, Sahajanand, I would not keep “human body” in the translation—say “human-ness.” Not all humans are human. Only one who has recognized the inner stream of consciousness is human. But we want everyone to be regarded as human because our bodies appear human. Certainly, the Buddha’s body was like this, Mahavira’s, Krishna’s, Christ’s; Nanak’s, Kabir’s, Paltu’s—everyone had such a body. But they did not end at the body. The body was only a ladder. Through the body they reached the bodiless. Only on attaining that did they become human in the true sense.

This is why Jesus said a very sweet thing, again and again. Sometimes he says, “I am the son of man,” and sometimes, “I am the son of God.” He used both fully. And Christianity has been in a dilemma for two thousand years: What should Jesus be taken as—the son of man or the son of God? Because Jesus uses both. Certainly, the priests must have felt very restless: why did Jesus say “son of man”? If he had only said, “son of God,” it would have been straightforward. Why this confusion? But I tell you: there is no confusion at all. To be human and to be divine are two sides of the same coin. One who becomes human knows that he is divine. The recognition of divinity is human-ness. The recognition of divinity is what manuṣyatvam means.

The sutra is beautiful: durlabham trayam evaitad devānugraha-hetukam.
Three things are rare—exceedingly rare. To be human; then to have mumukṣā, the burning will to be free; then the satsang, the living company of a great being—where an Upanishad happens, where one flame merges into another.

First, the rarest: to be human. To be born looking like a human is not very difficult—just as insects are born, so are human beings. But no other creature can realize the Self. The human can. It is not yet a fact, but it can become a fact. The seed is there; therefore the tree can be. Seeing this potential, the first rare thing in existence is to be born as a human.

But seeds may lie stored; the field may be right behind the house; the well may be full of water; the sun may shower light; spring may come, the cuckoo may sing—and yet if you do not sow the seed, the seed will remain only a seed.

There is a Sufi story. An emperor had three sons, and it was difficult to decide to whom he should give his kingdom. They were triplets—of the same age, so age could not decide. All three were gifted; even the teachers could not say who was the most talented. The puzzle deepened. All three were strong—each outdid the other. All had been tested on the battlefield and always returned victorious. They did not seem to know defeat. Whom should the emperor choose as his heir?

He asked a Sufi fakir. The fakir brought from his hut a sack full of flower seeds and said, “Take this, divide the seeds among the three, and go on pilgrimage. Say to them, ‘When I return, I want the seeds back exactly as I gave them.’ The one who succeeds best will inherit my throne.”

The emperor gave the seeds to the three and left on pilgrimage.

The first son thought, To keep the seeds safe, the only way is to lock them in an iron safe. No rat will reach them, no insect will get in, none can steal them. So he locked the seeds in an iron chest and sealed it with sturdy locks. He guarded the keys carefully—slept with them under his pillow, carried them everywhere. His whole future depended on saving those seeds.

The second thought, I too can lock them up, but what if in a closed chest they don’t get air and sun and rot? Father said to return them just as given. If they rot, I’m finished. Better I sell them in the market; money will be safe. When father returns, I’ll buy seeds again. Seeds are seeds—what difference? There’s no signature on them! How will he recognize them? So he sold the seeds. Money seemed safer. When father came back, he would buy seeds.

The third went and sowed the seeds in the garden behind his palace. He thought, The very meaning of seed is potential. To preserve a seed is to preserve potential—and potential is preserved only by realizing it. He sowed them.

When the father returned, the first son opened his chest. The seeds had rotted. From seeds that could have given fragrant flowers, only stench arose. The father said, “These are not the seeds I gave you. Those were not foul; they carried the possibility of fragrance. You have perverted the potential. You let the seeds rot. You have failed.”

He asked the second son. He said, “Wait, I’ll fetch some from the market! I sold them—precisely to avoid the fate that befell my brother’s seeds. I’ll go.” The father said, “But those will not be the same seeds. They cannot be the same, because the seeds I gave carried a fakir’s blessing. A buddha’s hands had touched them. Where will you find those seeds now, fool? You sold diamonds; now you will bring pebbles. Leave it—don’t bother. You have failed.”

He asked the third. He said, “Please come behind my palace. The meaning of seed is that it grows. If it doesn’t grow, what kind of seed is it? What sprouts and shoots is seed. I didn’t ‘preserve’ them otherwise—I sowed them. Come!” As far as one could see, the garden was full of flowers. So many flowers that birds had no place to build nests. The branches were laden, a fair of blossoms! “And I’m not worried about the kingdom. I’ve become blissful being a gardener. You gave me work, and if I do only this, my life is blessed—turning seeds into flowers. What greater thing could there be?”

The father went and saw. As far as the eye could see, only flowers. Fragrance floating, blossoms dancing in the wind. The father said, “Only you have truly saved my seeds. In one sense you have lost them—where are the seeds? But in another sense you not only saved them, you multiplied them infinitely. Soon these plants will give seeds, and from each seed crores more. You alone preserved them. This is how to preserve.”

The human being is a seed. One who brings the seed to flowering is worthy of calling himself human. This is not something to lock in a chest.

The third son became the ruler of the empire.

To be human is rare—because the very possibility is rare.

And then mumukṣā. Mumukṣā is a very lovely word, worthy of deep reflection. Keep three words in mind, because they sound similar but are different: one is kutūhal—curiosity; second, jijñāsā—inquiry; and third, mumukṣā—the yearning for liberation. Curiosity is childish: you ask idly, like scratching an itch and then forget it. Little children do this—on seeing anything, they ask, “Why this? Why that?”

Chandulal’s son Tillu went to school on the first day. Returning in the evening, he asked his father, “Papa, where did I come from?” Chandulal glanced meaningfully at his wife, winked and smiled: the child’s feet show the man! He said to Tillu, “Where did you get this foolishness?” Tillu said, “At school Ramesh said he came from Calcutta.”

The poor child was not asking the deep “where-from” the father imagined. One boy said he came from Calcutta, so he asked where he himself had come from. Curiosity was piqued.

Curiosity has no roots, no depth. It is superficial. If an answer comes, fine; if not, fine—nothing is at stake. That’s why little children keep asking anything and everything. If you don’t answer, they don’t wait; they pose another question.

But jijñāsā goes deeper. It has continuity—like drops that keep falling till the pot fills; indeed, till the ocean fills. Curiosity is a drop; inquiry is the drops falling continuously. “The rope, by coming and going, marks the stone.” Even a rope makes a groove on the well’s stone by going and coming. Jijñāsā is philosophical; curiosity is only an itch. Jijñāsā means questions that make your life-energies throb, that knock at your deepest door, that say, “An answer is needed.” Inquiry can spread over your whole life. Curiosity is in everyone—even the dullest. But inquiry makes a person intellectual, a philosopher, a thinker.

Mumukṣā is more wondrous still. The gap between curiosity and inquiry is great; greater still is the gap between inquiry and mumukṣā. The difference between curiosity and inquiry is quantitative: a drop versus many drops. The difference between inquiry and mumukṣā is qualitative.

Inquiry makes you a philosopher; mumukṣā makes you religious. In inquiry there are many questions; in mumukṣā life itself becomes the question. In inquiry there are many; in mumukṣā there is only one: Who am I? In inquiry, a thousand answers come and each answer breeds new questions. In mumukṣā there is only this one question; and ultimately even this question drops. The day it drops, life fills with the answer. That day life overflows with mystery.

Mumukṣā means: that by which freedom is attained. From philosophy, liberation does not come. Imagine someone imprisoned. Curiosity will make him ask, “Why does a guard always stand at the door? Why is there a gun in his hand? What does a gun do?” If he gets answers, fine; if not, fine—it won’t disturb his sleep.

But inquiry will disturb sleep—day and night the questions will haunt him: “Why these walls? Why these chains on my hands, these shackles on my feet? Why is the guard there? What have I done?” Yet how will a man in prison know why he is there? From the moment he became aware, he has only ever found himself imprisoned—chains on his hands, shackles on his feet, locks and bars on the door, a gunman outside. What can he do?

Mumukṣā means: not merely sitting in the cell comfortably asking questions, but trying to break the wall, cut the bars, corrode the chains—so that one day freedom is attained. Only when you stand outside the prison will you know the difference between bondage and freedom.

The sutra says mumukṣā is the second wondrous event. First, to be human is rare. Out of a hundred, barely one or two are truly human. Ninety-nine only appear to be. Think of them as scarecrows standing in a field.

You’ve seen scarecrows in fields: a pot for a head on a stick, another stick for arms, a shirt hung over it. If you like, you can stick a mustache and beard on the pot and put a Gandhi cap on it. It serves to frighten birds and animals; beyond that it has no use.

Kahlil Gibran tells a story: one morning I went for a walk; there was no one around, and I had long felt a curiosity—this scarecrow must get tired standing there—day and night, in rain and cold and sun, always standing. He must be restless, bored.

So, with a friendly greeting, I asked, “Brother Scarecrow, standing here all the time, you must get tired? Rain comes, sun comes, cold and heat, seasons come and go, yet you stand absorbed in your austerity! I’ve seen many ascetics and saints, but you are unmatched! Do you never get bored? Don’t you get restless? Doesn’t something else occur to you to do? You don’t move an inch—standing Baba! Feet planted!”

A smile came to the scarecrow’s lips; he laughed and said, “No, I don’t get bored. The fun of frightening birds and animals is so great I have no time to get bored. Where is the leisure? I’m so busy!”

In this world many are scarecrows. Their only delight is how to frighten, threaten others. Some do it by becoming politicians, some by hoarding wealth—there are all kinds of bullying. But they are scarecrows. The things by which they threaten—what things they cling to! Give them an opening and they will threaten.

Yesterday I read in the newspaper that Morarji Desai is irritated by the color red. Of course he would be—sannyasins’ color! And when he sees my sannyasins, he flares up! I keep sending my sannyasins to create a little stir wherever he is—let him have a darshan! His irritation grew so much that yesterday’s paper reported: when he was prime minister, All India Radio sent a man with a tape recorder to Safdarjung, his residence, to record a talk. The poor fellow, not knowing, wore a red Nehru jacket. As soon as Morarji saw him—like showing a red rag to a bull! His nostrils flared, he fumed. He was enraged: “Why are you wearing a red jacket?” Perhaps he suspected he was my man—a spy or what? Not quite a sannyasin, but why the red jacket? He got so angry he didn’t even give the poor fellow a chance to explain: “Get out of here! Don’t you even know that in Indian culture only women wear red saris, not men?”
Do you hear? Shankaracharya was a woman! The subhashita Sahajanand has asked about is from Shankaracharya’s Vivek Chudamani. Ramanuja, Nimbarka, Vallabh — all were women! Only one Morarji was born a man! Here, for five thousand years, the sannyasi has worn the ochre robe and he has no idea of Indian culture! Morarji Desai knows Indian culture!
He got so angry that the question of recording his lecture didn’t even arise — the poor fellow ran off just to save his recorder! The man in the red waistcoat messed everything up.

What a thrill people get out of frightening others! They are all scarecrows. This is their fun. Build a big house and scare the neighbors. “May our flag fly high!” These are scarecrows who talk like this. Hey, what is there in your flag that it should fly high? And why should it? Fold it properly and keep it in your suitcase! “May our flag fly high!” But the real meaning is something else — “May our stick be held high.” The flag is just a pretext; what’s really inside is the stick. The moment there is a little disturbance, the flag will vanish and the stick will be out.

So people are busy oiling their sticks! Such fun in scaring others! Who has the time to know oneself? Ninety-nine out of a hundred are caught in competition with others. And what foolish competitions — they have no awareness at all.

One day I met Mulla Nasruddin on the road. I said, “Brother, you used to have a twin — Kallan Miyan — haven’t seen him in a long time.”

Mulla Nasruddin said, “Ah, I took my revenge! Took it all in one stroke. A lifetime’s revenge. That wretch Kallan tormented me a lot. He was a bit sturdier than I — though we were twins — so in wrestling he would pin me down every time. There was no point in fighting; I’d only get thrashed. He’d wear my suit, my coat, my tie. My chest would burn, but what could I do? He even played such a devilish trick that when the first prize in school was awarded to me, he stood up and took it. Still I had to control myself, otherwise at home he’d slam me to the ground. If I was invited to someone’s house for dinner, he’d show up. Our faces were identical — no one could tell the difference. But the limit was crossed when I fell in love with a girl and he ran off with her. From that day on I was set on settling scores. Finally, I took my revenge.”

I said, “Tell me — how did you take revenge?”

Mulla Nasruddin laughed mysteriously and said, “I died — and they came and buried him! Ah, a hundred blows of the goldsmith, one of the ironsmith — one stroke for a lifetime’s settlement!”

Look what people find amusing! What a trance they live in! Ninety-nine out of a hundred are in a stupor, completely unconscious. They don’t know what they are doing! They don’t know why they are here! They don’t even know what they are!

A pilot-training course was underway. Sardar Vichittar Singh was asked, “Suppose you jump from a plane and the parachute doesn’t open — what will you do?” Vichittar Singh replied, “Sir, I’ll go to the storeroom and ask for another parachute.”

“O mere saathi re, tere bina bhi kya jeena!” Sardar Vichittar Singh, inspired by this famous film song — “O my companion, what is life without you!” — in the sorrow of separation from his beloved, had every brick of the landing in his house torn out and thrown away. In Hindi, “jeena” means both “to live” and “stair landing.” So, “O my companion, what is life without you” became “what is the landing without you” — and he dismantled the landing too!

He was making a film full of daredevilry. During a shoot, the double for the hero had to jump from a high window, but refused even after much persuasion. Finally, Director Sardar Vichittar Singh himself stepped forward to demonstrate. He jumped out of the window and, lying flat on the road, said, “Now you see? You understand how to jump, right? Now come to the window and leap just like me. But before that, phone a doctor — I’ve broken several bones.”

Who is conscious! Ninety-nine out of a hundred live unconscious. They don’t even know they are human beings. Someone is a Hindu — not a human; someone a Muslim — not a human; someone a Christian — not a human; someone a Jain — not a human. One is a Negro, one is white-skinned, one German, one Japanese, one Indian, one Pakistani — but a human? You can’t find one! Ask someone, “Who are you?” Hardly anyone would say, “I am a human being.” He will say: “I’m a Madrasi, Punjabi, Bengali, Bihari, Gujarati, Marwari” — but a human? Such a thing is hardly to be found.

Once in a hundred you may find a human. And among a hundred humans, one or two feel mumuksha — the ardent longing for liberation. Someone awakens to the fact that this life is a seed and it must be brought to its ultimate destiny, otherwise the chance will be wasted. Perhaps one in a hundred is truly human, and of a hundred humans perhaps one dedicates his life to that ultimate quest — fills himself with mumuksha. Mumuksha is a costly bargain.

I call the mumukshu the true sannyasin. That is my name for him. Call him a mumukshu or call him a sannyasin — it makes no difference — one who has devoted his life to the final search: “Until I know who I am, I will not rest.” How can one rest! Each passing moment will never return. It won’t come back. Gone is gone. Let it not be wasted. Let me squeeze every moment and cast it into self-knowledge — such is mumuksha.

The sutra says rightly that three things are astonishingly rare: first, humanity; then mumuksha — renunciation in the sense of the thirst for liberation — and then the refuge of a Mahapurusha. To sit at the feet of a true master, to share in satsang, to be linked with an awakened one, to keep inching closer to a lit lamp until your own extinguished lamp is also aflame.

Even if mumuksha arises in people, it is not necessary that they seek the company of a true guru, because to seek a guru you must let go of the ego. In mumuksha, the ego is not automatically gone; indeed, the ego can even be fed by it. Look at those gathered around Krishnamurti — you will see the world’s choicest egos sitting there. Why? Because Krishnamurti says: No surrender, no initiation, no need to accept anyone as guru — you are enough in yourself, self-sufficient.

That language pleases the ego: “I am sufficient. I need bend before no one.” But if you won’t bend anywhere, then what on earth are you doing at Krishnamurti’s feet? Why sit there? Sitting by the riverbank, refusing to cup your hands, refusing to drink — to drink water you must cup your hands, you must bend; only then will the water fill your palms and reach your throat. If you won’t, what are you doing at the ghat? Either dive in or take the road.

Those around Krishnamurti are only getting their ego gratified — “Satsang without bowing.” But there is no satsang without bowing. Surrender is satsang.

So the third thing is the most difficult: in the search for “Who am I?” to lay down at someone’s feet what you are not — the false “I” you have been taking yourself to be. To say, “By myself this doesn’t drop; perhaps through you it can. In your love, perhaps it can.” The refuge of a Mahapurusha, his nearness, his satsang.

The sutra says: And when these three come together, know that God’s great grace is upon you. Even one of them is much; if all three come at once, that is what is meant by “When he gives, he tears the roof open to give.” Then take it as divine grace — not your own merit. It cannot be your earning; it is his prasad, his gift. Then liberation is near; it has virtually arrived — you are standing at the door. Yet even then, beware — you can still miss. A person can turn back even from the doorway.

Many times the door has already come near you. In endless births, how could it be otherwise? Many among you must have come close to a Buddha. Many must have let go Mahavira’s company just as you were about to gain it. Krishna’s words must have reached the ears of many and you missed. Jesus must have tried to take many of you by the hand and you pulled it away. Mohammed’s voice must have resonated in many of your beings and faded. In this beginningless time, in this endless journey, there have been infinite Buddhas. How could it be that you never approached one? That you never heard Nanak and his mad disciple Mardana singing? That you never heard Kabir’s paradoxes, that Palatu did not shake you, that you never gazed into Raidas’s eyes? But the door came — and you missed.

Buddha used to say: Imagine a palace with a thousand doors, and a blind man wandering inside. Nine hundred ninety-nine doors are closed; one door is open. The blind man gropes and gropes — closed doors, closed doors, closed doors. When he comes near the open one, he thinks, “This will be closed too; I’ve already tried so many,” and he passes by without touching it. Don’t be angry with him — what is the poor fellow’s fault? He’s exhausted; he has felt so many closed doors that he assumes this one is closed and goes on. He misses. Only after wandering across nine hundred ninety-nine doors will this door come again.

Sometimes he comes near the open door and a fly settles on his head, and in the act of shooing it away, he passes the open door. His feet have already carried him beyond. Small things make you miss — a fly on the head and the open door is gone. Or a tiny argument. And there is no shortage of arguments. A man can invent as many as he wants. Even a blind man argues to defend his blindness. A deaf man argues to defend his deafness. Arguments are comforting.

That Vedanta question you raised — Dongre Maharaj says poverty is not a sin, but the poor should be respected.

If poverty is not a sin, why should the poor be respected — for their poverty? Respect them for their humanity. But then what is the difference between poor and rich, black and white? Respect the human! If poverty is not a sin and yet you say the poor should be respected — why add the adjective “poor”?

What Dongre Maharaj said — “the poor should be respected” — this is exactly what Mahatma Gandhi said: the poor are not merely poor; they are Daridra Narayan — God in the form of the poor. And if you are to honor Daridra Narayan, how will you eradicate poverty? Though of course it pleases the poor to be honored for their poverty. It is consoling, sweet, palatable. The insult of the rich also gives pleasure — “Good, he deserves it” — because inside burns the fire of envy. And the respect of the poor feels delightful — like a cool breeze blowing over your fevered skin.

Mahatma Gandhi did politics very cleverly by honoring the poor. This country is ninety-eight percent poor; politics must be run on them. Call them Daridra Narayan — their votes will be yours; they will call you Mahatma. But these poor do not know that the more their poverty is honored, the more it will persist. This logic is dangerous, costly.

I say to you: honor everyone! Why divide between poor and rich? Honor life! But if you say, “The poor must be honored,” that clearly means because of their poverty. And if respect is for poverty, then surely they must remain poor to keep receiving respect — and you will ensure they remain poor so they continue to receive honors; otherwise who will honor them! The day they become rich, no one will honor them. While poor, they are Narayan; if they become rich, they are lost and wayward. You will revere poverty and claim to eradicate it!

And I say to you that in another sense Dongre Maharaj’s statement is partially right. He said poverty is not a sin — in the sense that the poor are not individually responsible for being poor, as people say, “He is reaping sins from past births.” But poverty is a sin — a social sin, not an individual one. The whole society is responsible. This leprosy of poverty is the responsibility of society — and within that society, the greatest responsibility lies with your so-called saints and holy men who gave the poor arguments for remaining poor — arguments pleasing to the poor and pleasing to the rich.

Pleasing to the rich because if the poor remain poor, the rich remain rich. Pleasing to the poor because their poverty appears spiritual. “Look — even Buddha left his palace; before attaining Buddhahood he had to become poor. Mahavira also renounced his kingdom.” This is the honoring of poverty. This is the acceptance that poverty is indispensable for attaining the supreme truth. So “God’s great grace that he made me poor, a beggar, lowly, miserable, ill.” Thus the rich gain protection from revolution, and the poor gain consolation — they begin to enjoy their poverty and regard their illness as an ornament studded with jewels.

In this way, hollow words and hollow arguments keep getting invented. And people find charming arguments in support of the most wrongheaded positions. “If the Creator has written it in fate, knowledge will happen. Without him even a leaf doesn’t stir — how will Buddhahood be attained without his grace? When his grace descends, Buddhahood will come; what is there to do on our part?”

The result is the country became slothful, lazy. Whether you like it or not, your so-called rishis and munis bear responsibility for your sloth, your laziness, your poverty, your destitution. Until we wake up to this, poverty cannot be removed from this land. A man can find lovely arguments for anything; beautiful umbrellas can be made to shelter the ugliest falsehoods.

First the mind argues: “Born as a human — what more ‘humanity’ is there to attain? We are already human.” And the movement stops there. Or one may think: “Curiosity is mumuksha — to ask nice questions: Does God exist? Is there a soul? We’ll read scriptures, study, adopt scripturalness — that is mumuksha.” And mumuksha stalls. Then the ego says, “Why seek anyone’s refuge? Why grasp anyone’s feet? Why surrender anywhere? We will search ourselves. We will attain by ourselves.” And the refuge, nearness, satsang of a Mahapurusha is missed. The door comes near you, but you walk past it. And sometimes even at the door you act — but in the wrong way.

Like Ram Tirtha said: a man was pushing at a door — it wouldn’t open. Ram Tirtha saw and said, “Brother, read what’s written on the door.” It said: Pull. Not Push. And he was shoving at it. It could not open by pushing; it would open by pulling toward oneself. Read a little — look carefully at what’s written on the door! You stand at the door and with your own hands you miss.

So it happens that a man engages in becoming human, even cultivates mumuksha, even finds a true master, stands at the door — but doesn’t read what is written there and keeps doing the opposite. Because you will listen, but you will make your own meaning. I will say something; you will hear something. I will say something; you will interpret something else — and miss.

You have to sit with a true guru as zero — empty. You have to bid farewell to your intellect. It is hard, because then a fear arises: “If I dismiss my intellect, how will I decide?” But if your intellect could decide, there would be no need of anyone’s company. If it cannot, let it go. Say goodbye to it. The moment you let it go, your eyes become clear, your heart simple. Then what is said is exactly what you will hear. What you see will be as it is. You will not distort it, not dye it in your colors, not give it your commentary. There will be no bias.

Yesterday Aroop brought me a letter from Holland. The Dutch parliament has appointed a committee to investigate me, because the number of sannyasins in Holland is increasing by the day. Panic has grown — when a parliamentary committee must be formed, it means the matter is getting out of hand. In Holland, in village after village, even the smallest, sannyasins have reached. Ashrams and meditation centers have sprung up everywhere.

So they formed a committee, and it sent notice to each of my centers in Holland: “Give us the following information,” along with a letter saying, “We wish to investigate with complete impartiality whether the work you are doing benefits humanity or harms it.” And the signatories — one is a Christian priest, another a Catholic, another a Protestant — all are Christians.

My sannyasins in Holland replied rightly. They wrote, “First tell us: how will you judge us without bias? You yourselves are Christians. Being Christians, can you decide without partiality? And what right do you have to sit in judgment on us?”

When Aroop told me of the letter, I said, “Write to them to form a committee themselves and send it to all the churches: ‘We wish to investigate, without bias, whether in two thousand years Christianity has benefited humanity or harmed it.’ And we will judge without bias — because my sannyasins truly can judge impartially; they are neither Christian, nor Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Jain, nor Buddhist, nor Jew. They are simply religious — without any adjective. Their religiosity is without a sect; their dedication is without denomination.”

So write to them: we can judge impartially. And your two-thousand-year record is sufficient evidence as to whether you brought benefit or harm. Who are you to judge us! Who gave you that right? First look within and examine whether your two thousand years have not drenched the pages of history with blood. No one has spilled as much blood as Christians — they have outdone the Muslims too. Look at yourselves a little!

Yet while writing that letter it didn’t occur to them that they were signing their names as Catholics, Protestants, members of this or that denomination — and at the same time claiming to be impartial!

I have sent word to my sannyasins: ask them whether any of their Christian saints or holy men have spoken on Buddha, on Mahavira, on Krishna, on Lao Tzu, on Chuang Tzu, on Bokoju, on Bahauddin, Jalaluddin, Mansoor. Apart from Jesus, they have said nothing about anyone.

I am perhaps the only, and the first, person on earth who has spoken on Jesus, on the Bible, who has spoken on the Dhammapada, on Mahavira, on the Jina sutras, on the Upanishads, on Krishna, on Lao Tzu — who has looked at all the religions of this earth with an impartial eye — because I have no side, no religion of my own. Therefore when I spoke on Mahavira, I let Mahavira speak from within me — I did not interfere. When I spoke on Buddha, I let Buddha speak from within.

But bias sits so deep that those who wrote that letter did not even notice they were identifying themselves as Catholics, Protestants, adherents of this or that sect — and still imagining they were unbiased and would judge without partiality!

To sit with a true guru you must drop all partisanship. Only then can satsang happen. Only then can truth be exchanged. Liberation can come close — but you can still miss because of your biases.

Sahajanand, this sutra is truly nectarous speech:

दुर्लभं त्रैयमेवैवत् देवानुग्रह हेतुकम्।
मनुष्यत्वं मुमुक्षुत्वं महापुरुषसंश्रयः।।

To attain a human consciousness, to gain the vision of mumuksha, and to find the refuge of a Mahapurusha — these three are supremely rare, each on its own; and when all three meet together, know it as God’s grace. Then liberation is very near, right before you. Yet even then you can miss — because the stupor is deep.

Kanhaiyalal, the cow protector—hail to Kanhaiyalal! If you’ve understood even this much, you’ve understood a lot—at least something. Because to get a joke, too, one needs a little intelligence. The cow protectors don’t even have that much. Guzzling Mother Cow’s milk all the time, they end up like oxen. All right then—here’s a little more joking.

The teacher, being mischievous, said to the student, “Tillu, sit in shanti—sit quietly.”
Tillu said, “Sir, Shanti hasn’t even come to school today.”
And you say children aren’t gifted. They’re very gifted.

Teacher: “Tillu, when I was your age, I was one class ahead of you.”
Tillu: “Sir, you must have had a good teacher.”

“When this woman fought with her husband, were you present there?” the judge asked.
“Yes, Your Honor,” fourteen-year-old Fazlu replied.
“As a witness, do you have anything to say?”
“Yes—only that I’ll never get married.”

Even a fourteen-year-old gets it.

“Come on in, come on in—don’t be afraid of the dog.” Chandulal’s son, Master Tillu, said to the visiting guest, “Come on, come on.”
The guest asked, “Son, doesn’t he bite?”
Tillu said, “That’s exactly what I want to find out. I bought him today.”

Teacher: “If one pail of milk is enough for fifty guests, how much milk will be needed for a hundred guests?”
Tillu: “Guruji, the milk will be the same; we’ll just have to add more water.”

Teacher: “Who invented the airplane?”
Fazlu: “Sir, my father, Mulla Nasruddin.”
Teacher, angrily: “What nonsense!”
Fazlu: “Sir, you yourself said we should bring honor to our father’s name.”

Teacher: “Bunty, tell me—if a person was born in 1840, how old would he be now?”
Bunty: “First tell me, is it a man or a woman?”

In school the teacher was giving a lesson in morality. He said, “If I see a boy beating a donkey, and I stop him from beating the donkey, what virtue would that be called?”
Tillu said, “Brotherhood.”

Kanhaiyalal, children have a lot of brilliance. Don’t mistake brilliance for a stockpile of information. They don’t have the stockpile, but there is a simplicity in their seeing, a clarity. That is what I call brilliance. They have less information—certainly the old will have more information, because they have lived longer, so they will know more—but it is precisely because of that information that their brilliance gets smothered. The child has brilliance, not information. Brilliance means: as yet there is no curtain, no screen—he sees directly. And that is why children grate on the old; children say things that put the elders in a fix.

“Your mother fell ill today and got well today as well. What medicine did the doctor give, son?” the neighbor asked Master Tillu.
“Nothing, Auntie. He whispered in her ear, ‘This is a sign of your advancing age.’ At once Mommy stood up and began scolding Daddy.”

Aunt: “When your uncle slipped and fell off the wooden ladder, Tillu, what did he say?”
Tillu said, “Auntie, shall I leave out the abuses?”
Aunt said, “Yes, son, leave out the abuses altogether.”
Tillu said, “Then, Auntie, he didn’t say anything.”

Please say something.

Pratap, you’ve said it all. True words, Maharaj. You utter only Truth. Truth you speak, truth you do, truth you live. From today your name is Sacha Baba. It is in just such a place that the gods ramante. And yet the wicked still ask: why do they ramante?

Early this morning I ran into Paltu, so I said to him, Listen to what this Pratap says! What this Sacha Baba says! You had said—
Paltu: The good day, the good hour is when the Name is remembered.
All weddings and muhurts are false, and they only spoil the work.

But Sacha Baba has even turned you around, Paltu—turned you right around! Gave you a proper kick too. Even his wits are set straight. At once Paltu grew sad, wept and wept. I said, Why weepest thou, brother? He said, Such talk of wisdom! Alas, alas. Brother, the Kali Yuga has come.

That’s all for today.