Lagan Mahurat Jhooth Sab #3

Chidanand, the Upanishads are a dialogue that happened in the vast emptiness between the true Master and the disciple. It was a talk eye to eye. One heart sang its song upon another heart. The Master did not say anything, the disciple did not hear anything, and yet the Master said all and the disciple heard all.

There can be three kinds of relationships with a Master. The first is the student’s; then the Master is only a teacher. Speech is necessary there, dialogue is needed, because the exchange runs from intellect to intellect. That is the most superficial tie. The student is curious but not a seeker of liberation. He wants to know, not to be. To be requires the readiness to not-be. For knowing, no price need be paid; you can hoard information, and the ego relishes it. As information grows, ego becomes more and more nourished.

That is why the Upanishads say: ignorance misleads a little, knowledge misleads greatly. Ignorance takes you into darkness; knowledge takes you into a greater darkness.

The Upanishads are unique. Nowhere on earth, in any time or land, has such an unprecedented event occurred. In this first kind of tie between Master and student, Upanishads are not born. Scriptures may be composed, arguments fashioned, philosophies established—but all remains on the surface; the inner cannot happen.

The second tie between Master and disciple is discipleship. The student is no longer merely eager to ask; there are no questions now—the student himself has become the question. He no longer wants to collect information; now he wants to know. And he is ready to pay whatever price is needed. Even if he must be effaced in the knowing, he will not turn back. With such courage the student is transformed into a disciple.

That is why Nanak called his companions “Sikh”—the Punjabi transformation of shishya, disciple.

With the disciple, religion begins. The student wanders in the jungle of philosophy, gets caught in the net of words; the disciple begins to be untangled, to find a path. The path is of love; the wandering is of logic. Entanglement belongs to the intellect; resolution belongs to the heart. When energy moves from the head into the heart, the student is transformed. An inner revolution happens. He becomes a disciple.

Between disciple and Master, for the first time something meaningful is born. Before that it was only talk, mere conversation. Now there is a descent into depth. Now we move toward an intimacy—like a doll of salt diving into the ocean to measure its depth, and while finding the depth, itself disappears; the depth is known, but the measurer is no more. The disciple draws closer to the Master. From afar, like a cuckoo calling, the Master’s word begins to be understood. The Master will still speak words, but the disciple will now hear the empty spaces between the words. The pauses, the rests, become more important. Words will serve to bring them into relief, to provide a background. Words are still needed, but in a wholly different way.

The student only heard words, read the lines; the disciple savors the void between the words, listens to the space between the lines. What the Master says becomes less important; what the Master is becomes more and more important. This tie is of love. It has moved beyond logic, understanding, arithmetic.

Students have existed everywhere—in schools, colleges, universities; the world is full of them. But disciples are rare. They happen only once in a while—around a Jesus, a Buddha, a Nanak, a Kabir. To be a disciple one needs the courage to drop the ego, because as long as the ego remains, love cannot be.

And the third relation between Master and disciple—how to even call it a relation? Where two are not, how can there be a relation? Yet that is the supreme relationship. The journey that began with the student culminates there. The disciple is a stopping place on the way. The third form is that of the devotee.

The student is on the outside, on the circumference; the devotee is at the center; between the two stands the disciple. The disciple still needs words—the student needs only words; the disciple needs words and, with them, the wordless void. The devotee needs no words at all; the void is enough.

The Upanishad begins with the disciple and is fulfilled with the devotee. The head makes the student, the heart makes the disciple, and deeper than the heart—what is the life of your life, your very soul—makes the devotee.

The devotee’s “relationship” is intimate. We should not call it a relationship; language compels me to use the word. The two have vanished, duality has gone; now there is no Master and no disciple—only a silence, an emptiness, in which both are dissolved. Only then is there real communion. That is where the Upanishads happened.

Truly, the Upanishads contain mahavakyas. Mahavakyas are those utterances that happened in the great void. It is grace that someone collected them.

All four mahavakyas are immensely important. The first three are spoken by the Master to the disciple; the fourth is what the disciple has understood, lived, realized, and proclaimed. The fourth statement is the disciple’s; the first three are the Master’s. In the three, the Master is preparing; in the fourth, the disciple declares the fruition of that preparation.

The first is: “Tat tvam asi—That thou art.” The second: “Tvam tadasi—Thou art That.” The third: “Tvam brahmasmi—Thou art Brahman.” And the fourth: “Aham brahmasmi—I am Brahman.”

The three spoken by the Master are steps; the fourth is entry into the temple. The seeker who had set out has arrived at the goal. He announces his arrival to the Master. It is his offering at the Master’s feet: what you said, I have known, tasted, drunk, become—“Aham brahmasmi: I am Brahman.”

These first three utterances also have their order. First: “Tat tvam asi—That thou art.”

The stress is on That—so that the “thou” can melt. The “you” has to go. The more the “you” dissolves, the more the Vast will shine forth, be revealed, unconcealed. It is veiled by you. You must be removed so That can be known unhindered.

Hence the first formula is: “Tat tvam asi—That thou art.”

Remember: That is—the real is That. You are only a shadow. You are its shadow, its reflection. That is the full moon risen in the sky; you are its image shimmering in the lake. The emphasis is on That.

When the Master sees that the point has been understood, that the “you” has disappeared and only That remains, then comes the proclamation of the second mahavakya: “Tvam tadasi—Thou art That.”

Now the emphasis is on “thou.” For when you are not, only That remains. When you are not, what else can be left? But a confusion might arise—that everything is Brahman except me. To prevent that misunderstanding, the second mahavakya says: do not be afraid; now that you are no more, you are worthy to be told that you too are That. Do not worry; do not think that everything except you is the Divine. When all is That, you too are included in the All. Not only included—you can even be told that you are foremost. For the whole journey begins from oneself. This is a subtle and delicate point. When the “you” has vanished, then one can speak of “you” again; there is no obstacle now, no harm.

“Tvam tadasi—Thou art That.”

But even in these two mahavakyas the word “That” is used. “That” signifies distance—as if we were speaking of things, objectively; as if the living Brahman had not yet been invoked, a slight distance still retained—lest any danger arise. The Master treads with great care. There is much possibility of danger, because we have lived in delusion for lifetimes upon lifetimes. We are wrapped in delusions; delusion has entered every pore. The Master must wash, refine, cleanse us.

Kabir has said: the Master is a dyer. But before he dyes, he cleans; he washes, he brightens, he removes the grime from the cloth. Only when the cloth is clean can it be dyed; only then will the colors reveal their fullness.

When these two points are complete—when it is clear that the disciple has understood: “I am not; Existence is”—then he is told the second point: do not fear, you too are that Existence. Yet the word “That” is still used. When it is understood that Existence, That, is all, the matter can be taken a little deeper, into the most subtle. “Tvam brahmasmi.” You are not only That; you are Brahman.

Brahman means: now we have given “That” a face, personhood. We have endowed That with consciousness, with life. Now it is no longer an object, no longer a mere idol in a temple; now there is no need to remain detached. Now we need not insist that it is without attributes or form—that insistence was for your safety.

Had this been said at first, you would have latched onto a temple idol. Had you been told at the outset “Tvam brahmasmi—you are Brahman,” great arrogance would have arisen. Delusion was bound to happen. Therefore, step by step, slowly, neti-neti—this is not, that is not—slowly, just as a sculptor carves a statue, chisel in hand, cutting the stone little by little, removing what is unnecessary; when the unnecessary falls away, the form that was hidden reveals itself. It was always within the stone, but tied to the superfluous. The superfluous is removed; now the statue appears in its depth. Now the statue can be made. Now we no longer use the word “That.” To call it merely Existence is no longer apt; to call it Nature is no longer apt; now the word Paramatma, the Divine, can be brought in.

See how sensitively each aphorism advances! Even an atheist will not be disturbed. With the first two aphorisms, even an atheist will agree. They speak of Existence; the matter of God has not yet been raised. The rationalist will also agree, because Existence is—this is visible—and I too am, and everything is Existence. Existence is the name of the Whole.

To these two aphorisms Karl Marx will not object, nor the Charvakas, nor Epicurus; neither the materialist, nor the scientist, nor the physicalist—no one will object. And at the beginning almost everyone is in that state.

The third aphorism can be spoken only to one who has completed the first two.

“Tvam brahmasmi.”

Now the Master gently says: listen to the crucial secret! Existence is not inert matter; it is Brahman—chid-ananda—consciousness-bliss. “Tvam brahmasmi” means: you are not the body, you are not the mind; you are the soul.

These are the Master’s three proclamations. Then the Master waits. When the disciple understands—and here understanding means: when he drinks it in, when he begins to sway, when he enters ecstasy—then a proclamation arises from within him. He does not proclaim; the proclamation happens: “Aham brahmasmi!” Anal Haq! I am Brahman!

These are called mahavakyas because all the scriptures are contained in these four sentences. Nothing remains outside. What is left now?

But understand the conditions: the “I” must go—only then is there the possibility of knowing who I am. When the “I” goes, then Brahman comes. And then an astonishing state dawns.

If you have understood Chidananda’s first question, the meaning of this second one will reveal itself on its own.

In the Sannyas Upanishad there is this unparalleled verse. It certainly feels odd—because until the four Mahavakyas are fulfilled in you, it is bound to feel odd.

आत्मनेऽस्तु नमस्तुभ्यमविच्छिन्न चिदात्मने।
परासृष्टोऽस्मि बुद्धिऽस्मि प्रोदितोऽस्म्यस्यचिरादहम्।।
उद्धृतोऽस्मि विकल्पेभ्यो योऽस्मि सोऽस्मि नमोऽस्तुते।
तुभ्यं मह्यमनन्ताय तुभ्यं मह्यं चिदात्मने।
नमस्तुभ्यं परेशाय नमो मह्यं शिवाय च।।

Salutations to my indivisible, consciousness-self.
I am ever the Supreme, the immediate, the attained, the arisen.
I am lifted beyond alternatives; I am what I am—salutations to me.
You and I are the Infinite; I and you are the consciousness-self—salutations to both.
Salutations to me, the Supreme Lord; salutations to me, Shiva.

Sahajanand rightly asks: what an odd aphorism! “Salutations to me!” What sort of statement is this? It sounds like a proclamation of great ego.

“Salutations to my indivisible Self.”

In the time of Nanak and Kabir there was a Jain fakir, Saint Taran. He wrote an entire scripture called Atma-Puja—Self-Worship: to perform your own arati for yourself, to light incense and lamps for yourself, to place flowers on your own head.

On the face of it, it looks like madness; but if the four great sutras are understood, it no longer looks mad—then it becomes a very sweet sutra. Because who is to bow, and to whom? Here there is only One. The one who bows and the one to whom the bow is offered are the same. The One alone stands as if split in two.

This is why this land evolved a unique way of greeting—found nowhere else in the world. India has offered something unparalleled to human consciousness. When two people greet each other here, two things happen: first, they join both hands. Two hands are symbols of duality. Joining them declares: there are not two—there is One. To remind each other of that One, they bow with joined palms. And with joined hands, whatever words are used, they are a remembrance of the Divine: Ram-Ram, Jai Ram, or some other divine Name. Join the two, and the Divine Name arises; when duality goes, the Divine arrives. Two hands join into one—and what remains but: Hey Ram!

Around the world there are many ways to greet: some shake hands; some rub noses; some—more advanced—touch tongues! Some say “Good morning” or “Good evening.” Only this country refrains from touching the other: it simply joins its own hands. In that gesture it proclaims the One, and then remembers God. And even its “victory” cry is “Victory to Ram.” Why speak of morning or evening? Mornings come and go, evenings come and go; what abides is Ram. In whom both morning and evening arise—speak of That, and you have spoken of all. Ask for the One, and you have asked for everything.

An emperor set out on a victory campaign. Returning after conquering the world, he sent word to his hundred queens: “Send me your wishes; I will bring what you ask.” Ninety-nine sent their lists—Kohinoor diamonds, jewels of gold and silver—each asked for something. One queen sent only this: “Come home quickly. That’s all. What else is needed? If you come, everything comes.”

The emperor brought what each had asked for and distributed it. Then he went to the one who had asked only for him. The ninety-nine were amazed: “You return after so long, and choose that one? She is not the most beautiful, nor the youngest.” The emperor said, “She asked for me. You asked for things—our relationship is transactional. Hers is of the heart. You received what you asked. Allow me to give her what she asked—me.”

Why cry victory to morning or evening? If you must cry victory, cry it to the One. But that One dwells in the worshipper and in the worshipped. This supreme proclamation is what the Sannyas Upanishad’s sutra is declaring:

आत्मनेऽस्तु नमस्तुभ्यमविच्छिन्न चिदात्मने।
“Salutations to my indivisible, consciousness-self.”

It will feel odd because the four Mahavakyas are not yet fulfilled in you; the hour of Aham Brahmasmi has not yet come. Otherwise, the matter is perfectly straightforward.

परासृष्टोऽस्मि बुद्धिऽस्मि प्रोदितोऽस्म्यस्यचिरादहम्।।
“I am ever the Supreme, the immediate, the attained, the arisen.”

What lovely words! “I am ever the Supreme”—there is nothing above me. But you will know this only when the egoic “I” is dropped. If the “I” becomes arrogance, then there is nothing below you. If it is an egoic announcement, then there is nothing beneath the “I.”

This “I” is a wondrous ladder—by it you can descend into hell, and by it you can enter heaven. One ladder; one end planted in hell, the other in heaven.

“I am ever the Supreme.”
Where “I” is not—proportionately as you let go of “I”—the supreme state appears.

“Immediate...”
This word is worth deep reflection. You call many things “seen with my own eyes,” “an eyewitness account,” “it happened before me, directly.” What you have not seen yourself—what someone tells you—is indirect. If the medium is trustworthy, you trust; if not, you withhold. But whether you trust or not, keep one thing clear: you did not see it. It is not direct.

And even if it happens before your eyes, is it necessary that you see what truly happened?

Edmund Burke, a great historian, was writing a history of the world. He had spent some twenty-two years at it. In the twenty-second year, a murder occurred behind his house. He ran out—there was an uproar, the body still warm, the murderer caught with a bloodied knife, blood stains on him, blood on the path, a crowd of hundreds. Burke asked, “What happened?” One told one story, another told another, a third yet another—as many mouths, as many versions—and all were eyewitnesses.

Burke was deeply troubled. He went inside and burned the history he had labored on for twenty-two years. “A murder behind my house, with a crowd of eyewitnesses, and no two agree on what happened—each has his own tale. And I sit to write the history of the whole world from the beginning! What meaning can such history have?”

We see only what we want to see. A friend of the murderer saw one thing; a friend of the victim saw another; a neutral onlooker saw something else. All eyewitnesses—yet what testimonies!

According to the Upanishads, and to all awakened ones, only one thing is truly direct: your own Self. Everything else is indirect. Why? Because the mind will report it; the mind comes in between and interprets.

Buddha once explained: “As many people as are present here, that many different talks are being heard. The speaker is one—me—but because the listeners are many, the messages become many.” Like one person standing before many mirrors: many images are formed, and each mirror makes its image in its own way.

You may have seen those mirrors in a circus or museum—one makes you tall, another fat, another short, another crooked; in one you look like Ashtavakra, in another more camel than man, in another a lamp post, and in another so squat and stout that you can’t believe your eyes. All are mirrors, in the same hall—yet each tells a different story.

The mind is a mirror—and each person has a different mind.

Buddha said, “As many of you as are here, that many different talks you are hearing.” The next morning Ananda asked, “I didn’t quite grasp this. If you are the one speaking and we are hearing your words, won’t we all hear the same thing you said?”

Buddha said, “Fool, understand it like this. Go and find out. Last night, when I said, ‘Now go, complete the day’s last task,’ my monks understood one thing; a thief who was present understood another; and a courtesan understood a third.”

It was Buddha’s practice to end his talks by saying, “Now go, complete the day’s last task.” The monks took it to mean: go and meditate; because that was the day’s final work. Enter samadhi and, as you sink into samadhi, slip into sleep—turn the whole night’s sleep into samadhi. Then six, eight hours of sleep become hours of supreme absorption. You have made use of them; you have not wasted even sleep. People waste even their waking; you make nectar flow even in sleep.

“So my monks,” Buddha said, “rose to go meditate—it was time to sleep. The thief started and thought, ‘What am I doing here? Let me get to my work!’ And the courtesan said, ‘How amazing this Buddha is! How did he know I am here? He says: go, do your final task of the night!’ She went to her profession, the thief to his, and the monks to theirs.”

Buddha said to Ananda, “If you don’t believe me, go and ask.” Ananda was ever inquisitive—he remained a student to the end. He went to Amrapali, the courtesan who had come that night, and asked, “Did such thoughts arise in you?” Amrapali said, “This is the limit! How did he even know I was there? And how did he know what arose in my mind? He speaks the truth—that is exactly what arose. As soon as he said, ‘Go, complete the night’s last task,’ I dusted off my clothes and stood up: ‘Why waste a precious night? Clients must be waiting.’”

Amrapali was famed for her beauty—a courtesan to whom kings and emperors came. She climbed into her chariot and returned. Indeed, guests were waiting: “Where is Amrapali tonight?”

When Ananda confirmed this with her and she said yes, she came with him to Buddha’s feet and took initiation. “Last night you recognized me and caught me—and not only from the outside, you caught me from within. Now there is no refuge for me but these feet. All business finished, all work finished. Accept this unworthy one.”

Ananda also went to the thief—and he too took initiation. Ananda said to Buddha, “You have gone to the limit! Could it be that even my urge to go and ask the thief and the courtesan was your strategy? Because both came and drowned—and I still stand on the shore, bewildered: what happened, how?”

He remained bewildered till the end.

Only the Self is direct; everything else the mind mediates.

Therefore the sutra is beautiful: “I am ever the Supreme, the immediate, the attained!”

How wondrous: “attained” means always available. There was never a moment when you were not the Divine. There will never be a moment when you will not be the Divine. Even now you are the Divine—whether you know it or not, recognize it or not; forget, wander—but you cannot change it. Do what you will, you are what you are.

This verse of the Sannyas Upanishad says: “I am attained, and I am arisen.”

The inner sun is already risen. Turn your eyes within, and there is only light—no darkness anywhere.

“I am beyond alternatives; I am what I am—never otherwise, nor can I be otherwise—salutations to me.”

Will you not bow to such a wondrous experience of mystery? Will you refrain merely because “How can I bow to myself?” Where is “self” and “other” here? Such an unparalleled experience must be saluted—one must bow.

“You and I are the Infinite; I and you are the consciousness-self—salutations. Salutations to me, the Supreme Lord; salutations to me, Shiva.”

If the four Mahavakyas are understood, then even this seemingly odd sutra of the Sannyas Upanishad is not difficult. Meditate on them. Dive into them. Descend them step by step. This is the path.

And until one walks this path, until the final proclamation—Aham Brahmasmi—happens, there will remain dissatisfaction, discontent, dejection, suffering; until then there is hell and only hell. With this proclamation the flowers of your life will blossom; fragrance upon fragrance; the veena will begin to sing; the unstruck sound will resound; the shower of nectar will begin—as if a thousand suns rose at once. And not a shower that begins and ends: then nectar rains without end. The Vedas say: Amritasya putrah—you are children of immortality. But you have forgotten, you have strayed, you have fallen asleep. In sleep you lie—wake up!

When the heart speaks with the Beloved,
the whole assembly becomes the cosmos.
The lips don’t even feel it—
the talk happens eye to eye.
We forget only ourselves—
otherwise, it’s all talk of the world.
One night is His—may God keep it—
and one night is ours as well.
When the heart speaks with the Beloved,
the whole assembly becomes the cosmos.

The Upanishads are matters of the heart.

The lips don’t even feel it—
the lips don’t even come to know.
The lips don’t even feel it—
the talk happens eye to eye.
Between master and disciple, something happens.
The lips don’t even feel it—
the talk happens eye to eye.
When the heart speaks with the Beloved...

This bond is of love—supreme love. All other loves fall short before it. All other loves are petty, limited; only what transpires between guru and disciple is vast, immense, boundless.

Satya Niranjan! Even poison, too, is elixir—veiled, covered, concealed. As a rose grows among thorns. If you look rightly, poison also turns to nectar. It is all the art of seeing. It is all a matter of vision. The whole secret lies in the gaze. Nowhere is anything truly bitter. Everything is to be made lovable, made sweet.

And I am preparing the veena of your heart. Every day this preparation is going on. When the veena is ready, any excuse can set it resonating. Even a gust of wind can make its strings tingle. The veena is ready; that is why such an incident happens.

There is no crowd here. This is not a path for everyone. This is a settlement of madmen. This is a fair of moths to the flame. And so, you say there was a smile on our lips and tears in our eyes. Both things happen only to the mad—laughing and crying together. But there is a kind of madness that is above all cleverness. And to attain it, if one must pay with all one’s cleverness, it is no costly bargain.

What would the people of reason know of the heart—this too is their helplessness;
In love, to be a little mad is perhaps very necessary.

Walking, ages have passed along the heart’s delicate pathways;
We had heard the journey’s span was only a distance of two steps.
In love, to be a little mad is perhaps very necessary.

How will reason ever untangle the heart’s tangled strings?
From the folk of reason to the folk of ecstasy lies the moth-and-flame’s distance.
In love, to be a little mad is perhaps very necessary.

Let those who call man bad—saints and prophets—say what they will;
In his sight the dust-made Adam is luminous, full of light.
In love, to be a little mad is perhaps very necessary.

Do not let failure leave your home, O “Anjum”;
God becomes the lover of the one whose hope remains unfinished.
In love, to be a little mad is perhaps very necessary.

What would the people of reason know of the heart—this too is their helplessness;
In love, to be a little mad is perhaps very necessary.

This is a settlement of madmen; a fellowship of revelers. Here sit the drunkards. Any excuse—any excuse is enough. The veena’s strings will be struck. They will not be stopped; once they begin, they will go on playing. Even if you try to stop them, they won’t stop. Tears will flow, and there will be a smile on the lips. And when these two are together, magic happens. That magic is not mine; that magic is yours. You have prepared yourself to be mad with me—therefore it is happening.

Subhash, keep your neck straight! I said that keeping your wife in mind. Wives are very suspicious. Your wife will return from Rajkot, and if she sees your neck straight, she’ll ask, what’s the matter? Father of the soon-to-be Pappu, what’s going on? Why is your neck straight? It used to be crooked—why does it look straight now? There’s some secret! Something’s fishy—something black in the lentils! Who straightened your neck? Who made you drink lassi? Who fed you boondi? What have you been up to here?

Women keep accounts of everything. It’s been like this from the very beginning.
They say when God made Adam and Eve, there were only the two of them. In the Garden of Eden there wasn’t a soul besides them. Even then, if Adam was a little late getting back, Eve would do exactly what Eves still do: Where were you? Why so late? Adam would explain till he was blue in the face: Look, there’s no one here but you—where could I possibly go? The weather was lovely, I just strolled back slowly. What’s there to be so anxious about? But the story says that when night fell and Adam went to sleep, Eve would count his ribs. Because God had made Eve from one of Adam’s ribs. So she’d count to make sure they were all there. Maybe God had taken out another rib and made another woman! She couldn’t trust it, so every night she’d count the ribs—and only when they were all there would she go to sleep.

So when your wife returns, Subhash, and sees your neck straight, she’ll say: Who awakened your kundalini? How did your neck get straight? When I was around it always stayed crooked! You must have been gallivanting. That’s why I said, keep your neck straight in general—now that it’s straight, that’s good—but when your wife is on her way back, the moment you get word she’s coming, tilt your neck. Put on that same long face—every husband has to keep one handy—that grave melancholy! Because if a wife sees you cheerful, it means there’s trouble! Why are you happy? If you’re happy, it means some other woman is showing up somewhere in your life. And a man is only happy when a new woman arrives. After that he’s never happy again!

So women know the arithmetic. I just cautioned you a little: don’t drop the practice all at once! Keep a little practice going. In the morning, sit down, remember your wife, tilt your neck, sit sadly in front of the mirror. That’s all—keep a bit of practice going, so when she arrives you’re ready. Otherwise if you’re standing there with a perfectly straight neck, she’ll twist it—forever! Then neither lassi will help, nor boondi, nor rasmalai—nothing!

Mummy
hit Daddy,
so the child
called the Uncle next door
for help.
Uncle said—Son,
don’t drag us
into your domestic matters.
If you can, go
and reason with
your Aunty.
Invoking the valor
of wives, your Aunty
has already
thrashed us
three times
since morning.

Tillu Guru asked his father, Chandulal: “Papa, are you afraid of the dark?”
Chandulal said: “No, son, never. Why would I fear the dark? Do you take me for a coward?”
Tillu Guru said: “Are you afraid of thunder, lightning, and lions?”
Chandulal said: “I’m afraid of none. Let the clouds thunder, the lion roar, the lightning flash!”
Tillu Guru said: “Not afraid at all?”
Chandulal said: “Not at all!”
So Tillu Guru said: “That means, except for Mommy, you’re not afraid of anyone.”

One has to be afraid of Mommy.

When Chandulal got married, he told Dhabboo-ji: The very day my wife came home, there was a theft at my place. Dhabboo-ji said: The elders spoke true—trouble never comes alone.

There was a ferocious fight between Chandulal and his wife. The wife beat him thoroughly and said: I’m going to my parents’—and I’ll file for divorce the moment I get there.
Chandulal said: Go—go! Don’t sweet-talk me like that!

Sweet talk!
“Don’t you try to charm me for nothing! Always promises! Nothing but promises—none ever kept!”

Mulla Nasruddin and Chandulal had gone hunting. Chandulal was a complete novice—and a poor Marwari at that! He barely knew how to hold a gun. Somehow he held it, somehow he fired. The gun did go off—but the bullet whizzed right past Mulla Nasruddin’s wife. He had been aiming at a crane flying in the sky—and the wife was sitting on the ground!
Nasruddin was furious. He said: Hey, Chandulal, you should fire a gun more carefully! Your bullet almost hit my wife!
Chandulal said: Big brother, there’s nothing to be upset about. Here, take the gun and fire at my wife twice! Just don’t mention my name! I haven’t said anything—I’m not in this at all. I’m completely outside it!

But it’s a big predicament. If you have a wife, it’s trouble; if you don’t, it’s trouble. If you don’t, you miss her terribly. If the wife goes to her parents’ place, men write the most tender letters!
Now Subhash here must be writing—daily! If he can’t manage himself, he must be getting neighboring sannyasins to write them: Brother, write some sweet nothings for me; I can’t bring myself to, because I’m also scared! And if I don’t write, I’m scared too.

Wandering lane to lane
goes the peddler Gangaram.
In front of the school
Gangaram sells balloons.
The wife went to deliver her child—and along with her
went the apple of his eye.
Since then the courtyard
has been in unbroken dusk.
Once so vocal, now, heart-struck,
Gangaram has fallen silent.
In the gamble of life
Gangaram has lost it all.
In the crowds that come and go
he is sharing out small joys,
spending wakeful nights,
smoking beedis through the dark.
Before his time the poor fellow
looks old, worn out—Gangaram.
Yesterday he was a chorus,
today he’s an ektara—Gangaram.

When the wife leaves, the chorus becomes an ektara. And when the wife arrives—forget chorus—it’s the blare and bustle of the bazaar, an uproar! In every condition, the chorus is lost. Living together is hard; living apart is hard. Look at the human predicament! What a way God has entangled man! This is what’s called leela—divine play! I was only warning you to be alert to the leela.

Now you say, “Revered Master, the recipe you’ve given is very spicy; please guide this dizzy fellow who’s caught in a whirl.”
So far I’ve only given you the rasmalai recipe. I told you: when Sohan appears, at once—“Hail Mother! Rasmalai!”—and immediately touch her feet. And if her husband is with her, remember: when the Ganga is in flow, wash your hands—drop straight at his feet as well. But his mantra is different! The yantra-mantra of each deity differs. Don’t go saying to him, “Hail Mother, rasmalai,” or you’ll get a beating—that’s right, a beating! That mantra won’t work! If Manik Babu is with her, fall at his feet and say: “Hail, Lala! Karanchi-wala!” Different mantras for different deities.

I’ve only told you half the mantra. When there’s too much rasmalai in you, and your insides start to churn, restlessness grows… You’ve seen it—poor Dattabal ended up with diabetes, and then there’s unease! So when the rasmalai becomes too much, you’ll get “diabetes.” Then you’ll be in a flutter. That’s when Manik Babu will feed you samosas, pakoras, vadas—male-type things. That will set everything right. Don’t be alarmed! If I whirl you around, I’ll also give you the way out of the whirl.

Krishnanand, who says events like those of old no longer happen? They still do! Why be disheartened, brother! Keep hope.

In a village named Kapatvastu, there lived a leatherworker (chamar) called Luttodhan. In spite of various family-planning measures, his wife became pregnant in old age and died immediately after giving birth. Pandit Popatmal, the astrologer, declared the child promising: he would either become a renowned saint or a great international bandit.

Luttodhan asked, “O Gurudev, what can I do to keep my boy from becoming a bandit?” Popatmal said, “Raise him in such a way that he never even learns that thieves and bandits exist.”

Luttodhan did just that. He ordered his mistress never to tell the boy stories of thieves and bandits. If there was ever a theft in the neighborhood, the boy was to be sent to his maternal uncle and grandfather’s home for eight or ten days.

The mistress truly raised the child like her own. She took him to bow at the feet of sadhus and saints, had him sing the aarti ‘Jai Jagdish Hare’ and pray to Lord Ganesha. Out of fear of bad company, she didn’t send him to school. But the boy was destined—who can change what is written by fate! By the age of eight or ten his traits began to show, and people started calling him Dhurtraj, “king of tricksters.”

The father thought the boy was going astray, so he got him married as a child, hoping that household responsibilities would make him forget his mischief. The result was the opposite. Dhurtraj’s wife, Bhagodara, was so quarrelsome that the poor fellow thought day and night of running away from home.

At twenty-nine, when Dhurtraj was going with a friend to the neighboring city to take part in the Ravidas Jayanti celebrations, he saw on the way a big, big-mustached strongman swaggering along with a staff in hand. He asked his friend, “Why is that man walking like that? Has his back stiffened?” The friend said, “No, man, that’s Dada Lafanganath, the guru of the toughs. No work at all—lives off other people’s milk and curd, and bullies folks.” Dhurtraj asked, “Could I live like that too? I’m sick of stitching shoes.” The friend said, “Why not—start doing squats and push-ups from today. Start intimidating the public.”

A little farther on they met an eighty-five-year-old codger in snug churidar pajamas and a fine achkan who looked like a strapping twenty-five-year-old. Dhurtraj asked, “What’s the secret of this fossil not aging?” The friend explained, “He’s a former Prime Minister. He lives in the hope of becoming Prime Minister again. He drinks his own ‘life-water.’ That’s why even at this age he doesn’t stop raising a ruckus—he can outdo young bucks. If you want evergreen youth, start raising a ruckus right away. Don’t waste time stitching shoes.”

A little further they saw a crowd proclaiming “Ram naam satya hai,” and on the shoulders of four men a palanquin carrying a plump, jet-black gentleman. Dhurtraj said, “Strange! The man’s alive—why have they put him on a bier?” The friend answered, “It’s not a bier, you dolt! Kiddo, it’s the palanquin of a leader’s procession!” Dhurtraj asked, “Then why are they chanting the name of Ram?” The reply came, “That’s the minister’s auspicious name—Babu Jagjivan Ram. He’s of our own caste and he’s come to inaugurate the Ravidas Jayanti ceremony. If you work hard, you too can become a great leader like him and make a name.”

After the procession passed, Dhurtraj saw a man in pristine white khadi, rosary in hand and humility spread across his brow, running along chanting “Jai Babuji, Jai Babuji.” Dhurtraj asked, “And who is this man? Why is he dressed in white like that?” The friend said, “He’s a chamcha—a sycophant. He’s going to serve the leader. If the leader is pleased with his devotion, he’ll take him to Delhi and grant him his heart’s desire.” Dhurtraj said, “Can I do that too?” The friend replied, “Why not!” Hearing this, Dhurtraj said, “Friend, let’s go back home. I’m no longer interested in Ravidas Jayanti.” The two returned to their village.

That night at two o’clock, Dhurtraj got up, took all the money from his father Luttodhan’s wallet, slipped the toe-rings off his stepmother’s feet and the bangles from her hands, spat softly one last time on the face of his quarrelsome wife Bhagodara, cast a contemptuous glance at his newborn son “Kahil” (Lazy), and left home. He boarded the first train he found, without a ticket, and went straight to Delhi. And then what happened was just like the tales in the Puranas.

Dhurtraj began tapas—austerities. Sycophancy is the tapas of the modern age, the modern austerity. No concern for honor or humiliation. Whether someone respects you or rebukes you, see all with equanimity, and present your petition again and again—that is hatha yoga. Dhurtraj practiced this hatha yoga diligently. He knocked on doors, suffered abuse, but somehow managed to please a few legislators. Yet he could get no higher than the MLAs. So to advance his sadhana he resorted to the modern fast—namely, a hunger strike. Strikes, riots, citywide shutdowns, party-hopping, trickery, speechifying, rumor-mongering, and other devices—when even with all these Dhurtraj found no success, after six years of this upheaval he lost heart and decided that becoming a minister was not in his fate. Seeing him worn out, his five thug friends, who had been helping him in every way, left him.

That night Dhurtraj went to a five-star hotel, and after a swim in the pool he sat down sadly with his eyes closed under a tree. It was a full-moon night. After a while, when a beautiful and brazen minister’s daughter named Miss Kuwaita came there to bathe, she saw in the moonlight this young man sitting beneath the tree and was smitten. She approached him with a proposal to sleep together. Dhurtraj agreed. The two reveled the whole night. In the morning, as the last star was about to fade, the temptress suddenly panicked and said, “Oh my God! I forgot to take the contraceptive pill last evening! What now? I’m pregnant!”

She immediately phoned her daddy and told him. Daddy said, “No need to panic, daughter. Don’t worry. Bring the young man home with you. I’ll arrange your wedding today itself. And you know we need an ambassador to send to Kuwait. The Prime Minister had told me that my relative would be made ambassador. So I’ll have your would-be husband appointed ambassador to Kuwait today itself. Come home quickly!”

Just as Siddhartha Gautama became Gautama the Buddha at dawn, so did Mr. Dhurtraj become an ambassador—meaning, as Pandit Popatmal the astrologer had predicted, he became a great international bandit.

Thus ends the Leader Purana.
That’s all for today.