Lagan Mahurat Jhooth Sab #9

Yogananda, I have given you the name Yogananda; the whole secret is in it.

A human being can live in two ways: either cut off from existence, or in oneness with it. Whoever lives separate will live in sorrow—anxiety and anguish. That is natural, for to live apart from existence is like a tree pulling its roots out of the earth and trying to live. It will wither; the leaves will droop, flowers will cease to bloom. Spring will come and keep coming, but that tree will never become a bride, never a bridegroom. For it there will be no spring. If the roots have been torn from the soil, what remedy can even the honeyed month of spring offer? Then where is bliss, where is ecstasy! Then there is no dawn—only a dark new-moon night, a night with no morning. Such a life is called ego.

And the tree that is practicing yoga with the earth—spreading roots into the soil, branches into the sky, chatting with the clouds, making kinship with the moon and stars—if that one is not joyous, what else could it be! The winds will come and it will dance, hum; as the winds pass they will sing. Birds will make their nests upon it. Sunrays will frolic upon its flowers. The name of such a life is sannyas.

Sannyas means egolessness. The world—samsara—means ego. Samsara means: I am separate, different.

And the moment the notion arises “I am separate, I am different,” its natural, logical outcome is: I must struggle, fight, hoist the flag of victory. And a small man, a mere drop, sets out to fight the ocean—how many worries will fill him? How much anguish will surround him? How many fears and insecurities? All around him there will be a whole fair of anxieties.

The process of knowing the truth that we are not separate is called yoga. Yoga means we are together, connected, united. Yoga means union. The instant one realizes “I am joined,” there is neither birth nor death. The instant one knows “I am connected with existence,” in that very moment one becomes eternal. For as long as existence has been, we have been; and for as long as existence will be, we will be. And existence simply is forever. There never was a time when it was not; there never will be a time when it will not be. Then birth and death are petty incidents. The flow of life is beyond birth and death. The body comes and goes, forms and dissolves—we do not.

But this realization is possible only when we remove the ego from the middle. The moment ego appears, a wall appears. We break apart, become separate. And the moment ego goes, the wall falls; a bridge is made. We are united, yoked—attained to yoga.

Yogananda, the key is hidden in your name. Yoga itself is bliss. Then even the new-moon night becomes a full-moon. It does not take long; it happens in a single instant.

The charge against us is only our longing for you—
It is no insult; if anything, it is an honor too.
What they taunt us for—surely it is no crime:
A foolish ardor, an unfulfilled love—only that, this time.
The heart—if anything, it is but a name for defeat.
Long is the evening of sorrow, yet an evening complete.
In the hand of the heavens, it isn’t fate that turns,
In the hand of the heavens, only the wheel of days churns.
At last, one day, the gaze will prove faithful and true—
That sweet-tempered friend will appear on the rooftop too.
Night still remains; Faiz, let the ghazal begin anew:
It is the hour of song, and there is the wine of pain too.

The moment you make even a small move to join, one begins to feel:
Long is the evening of sorrow—yet it is an evening all the same.
At last, one day, the gaze will prove faithful.

That moment is not far when existence will shower bliss upon you, when existence will become prasada for you. You practice yoga; existence is grace. You practice yoga; then there is no enmity with existence—then we are its limbs, indispensable limbs. If a wave imagines, “I am separate from the ocean,” it will fall into trouble. And no matter how much it imagines it is separate, it is not; it cannot be. When you live in untruths, there is suffering. As you come nearer to truth, there is happiness. And when you become one with truth, there is bliss.

Any time—you can have it right now. It is not a matter of much acquiring. Bliss already abides within you. It is less to be obtained and more to be discovered—uncovered. It is present but veiled.

The rishis of the Upanishads prayed: O Lord, uncover this vessel whose mouth is covered with gold! It is a beautiful prayer. It is under golden lids that your bliss has been hidden. Into “gold” has gone everything—the web of your expectations and desires, the chase for status and position, the race for wealth. Gold is a symbol: “Let me get something; let me find some valuable thing outside; some throne!”

The rishi of the Upanishad says: O Lord, remove this golden covering so that I may know myself.

In knowing oneself there is bliss. But at least this much must be done; at least this much prayer must be made.

Who says I need the interpretation of dreams?
I need Your image before my eyes.
Who says I need the interpretation of dreams?

May He come searching for me and I not be found—
Such a destiny is what I seek.
Who says I need the interpretation of dreams?

The moon and stars won’t fall by themselves;
At every few steps, one must also make one’s own effort.
I need Your image before my eyes.
Who says I need the interpretation of dreams?

You ask what remedy there is for poverty—
Before the darkness, one needs illumination.
I need Your image before my eyes.
Who says I need the interpretation of dreams?

Let remembrance remain—Your image before my eyes—let the memory remain that I have not yet reached, that I have not yet come to that place where life becomes auspicious, where the lotus of life blooms, where it is Diwali, where lamps upon lamps are lit—rows upon rows of lamps that never go out. But a little skill is needed—only that much is yoga.

The moon and stars won’t fall by themselves;
At every few steps, one must also make one’s own effort.
I need Your image before my eyes.

Let the remembrance stay—and a little effort.

Krishna says in the Gita something of great value: to realize the Divine very little effort is needed, a little skill, a small exertion—just as when a speck of dust enters the eye, even the vast Himalayas standing before you are hidden. A small thing! A tiny particle enters the eye and the colossal Himalaya is concealed. Remove the speck from the eye; that is all the skill required.

So much labor, just that much effort, that much attention, that much yoga, that much religion. As soon as the speck is removed, the whole Himalaya appears. The Himalaya was there; the dust only prevented your eye from opening. The Himalaya doesn’t depart because your eyes are closed. Bliss is present within you, but on the inner eye a pebble lies. And dust has gathered on the inner eye because you never look within.

I have heard: in the history of English medicine a striking incident is recorded. A woman lay in bed for forty years. She had the flu. The doctor came; in a few days the flu would have been gone. But as he left he said, “Don’t get up until I tell you—rest.” It was only flu, no major illness. The doctor forgot all about her. She must have been a very principled woman! She didn’t get up. The flu got better—she even felt it had—but “I’ll get up only when the doctor says!” So she kept lying there.

And lying there became enjoyable. She was freed from work. While her mother lived, the old mother looked after her. When the mother died, her sons, daughters, and daughters-in-law took care of her. She lived well because she lived in bed. When the son died, the daughter-in-law died, the daughter died, the relatives and neighbors took care of her. Still she didn’t get up—for forty years!

By chance the doctor passed through that neighborhood and remembered: “I used to be called to this family long ago; for years no one has been ill, and the house looks desolate.” He knocked. From inside a voice: “Come in; I can’t get up from the bed. The door is stuck; please open it.” He entered; the woman lay there—now very obese. “What’s the trouble? Why are you lying here?” She said, “Trouble? You told me forty years ago not to get up until you said so.”

It took the doctor two years of effort to get her to stand. Forty years in bed and the body had forgotten how to stand. Bones had stiffened, the back would not bend. Two years of steady labor and the doctor got her up again. They say she lived five more years—happily and active. But forty years she clung to the bed.

That is our condition. Nothing is diseased within; within all is healthy, all is bliss. But we have become habituated to look outward; we have forgotten to look within. Because we never look within, the capacity to look within has shriveled; our eyes have forgotten how to turn inward.

And what will you see outside? There is no bliss outside. At most you can get fleeting pleasures. But fleeting pleasure is a costly bargain. For a moment you get a taste, and behind it comes a long sorrow. A flash of light, a single ray, and then a deep dark night. So for the little pleasure you pay with much pain. Yet in hope of the next pleasure, man goes on: “Again it will come, now it will come.” It comes—and the same result follows: sorrow, dejection.

The eternal cannot be found outside. Outside, transience is the law; inside, eternity is the law. Understand it thus: “outside” means impermanent; “inside” means eternal. Until the eternal is found, fulfillment is impossible.

What will you do with what can be gained and lost? And what deceits you must practice to gain it! And it slips away like lines drawn on water—before you can form them, they dissolve. Even lines etched on stone are erased. Outside, whatever is built is bound to perish. And what all does man not do to gather a few coins!

A woman gave a beggar a few coins and said, “Do you get enough for food and clothing? You’re only lame. Nowadays who gives to the lame? In my neighborhood there’s a blind beggar; he gets a lot. One feels such pity for the blind. A lame man can still do something, but what can the blind do?” The beggar said, “Keep your wisdom to yourself. I used to be blind—but people would palm off counterfeit coins on me. I could see they were false, but I couldn’t say anything—because I was ‘blind,’ you know! So I left that line of work and became lame. Now at least I can inspect the coins.”

What all man doesn’t have to do—be blind, be lame—what dishonesties he is driven to!

I have heard: Chandu Lal was passing a bridge when a blind man called out, “Sethji, give something. There’s no profit greater than charity; no religion higher than charity. Give one here; receive millions there.” Chandu Lal said, “Brother, first tell me: how did you recognize that I’m a wealthy man? You are blind. From so far, how did you know?” The “blind” man said, “What can I hide from you? I’m not blind. My blind beggar friend usually sits here; today he’s gone to the cinema. I’m actually lame—I sit on the other side of the bridge. He asked me to hold his spot so no one else takes it. I’ve put my boy in my own place. The blind one has no family.”

The blind man has gone to the cinema, and the lame man is covering for him! Such games—and everyone is playing them. Layer upon layer of deception. You keep weaving nets over nets and get entangled in your own knots. There is no end to the outside. Keep going for lifetimes; nothing reaches your hands, your breath grows thin, no satisfaction, no fragrance in life, no light—only search in the same direction you have blindly taken.

Turn inward, Yogananda. Look at yourself. The moment you behold yourself you will be astonished: there is bliss upon bliss; they stand in rows. Not one bliss but one after another—peak after peak, each higher than the last.

What knowledge have they learned, who read without letters;
Their tongue speaks not, yet they test without moving their lips.
Their hearts are strings of the stars; their bodies, drums and claps.
The mouth a chang, the tongue a sarangi; feet with anklets, hands with bows.
The melodies are colored by Him alone, the feelings molded by Him.
When measure and tune fall away, the drum dances without a beat.

When the hands have washed the hands, and hands begin to throb;
When the feet have drawn the feet, and feet begin to find their gait;
When the eyes have been lifted from existence, and the eyes begin to preen—
All things are girded; all dances dance, to entice that rasika, that charming One.
The melodies are colored by Him alone, the feelings molded by Him.
When movement and measure fall away, the drum dances without a beat.

For whom the dance was done—when His image appears—
Somewhere the “I” is said, somewhere the dance, somewhere the note ripples.
When the handsome, playful Beautiful dwells within the eyes,
A fainting-trance comes—and light merges into Light.
The melodies are colored by Him alone, the feelings molded by Him.
When movement and measure fall away, the drum dances without a beat.

There is a dance that happens in the innermost core. Call that dance bliss, call it heaven, liberation, Samadhi, awakening, nirvana—whatever name you wish. But whatever treasure of treasures there is, it is within you. Do not search outside.

You ask me, “What is the secret?” The secret is direct and clear. There is nothing hidden. There are no keys. That is why there can be no school, no academy, no book, no scripture for religion—because religion is not knowledge.

Satya Priya has written me—a young sannyasin; what a lovely thing she wrote: “Bhagwan, a great puzzle has arisen. My father, Advait Bodhisattva, doesn’t know Sanskrit; I don’t know Sanskrit; you also don’t know Sanskrit. My father is teaching me Sanskrit by a key-guide. None of us three knows Sanskrit—what will happen?” There’s no obstacle. If Sanskrit can be learned by a key, then, Satya Priya, first learn it by the key yourself; then teach your father; then your father will teach me.

What can be solved by a key is no difficulty. But some things are not solved by keys. Therefore no one can give Truth to another—there is no key. One can only hint, point, lay one’s presence open before you, open the doors of one’s heart. That is what I am doing, Yogananda. If you can be immersed in this satsang, if you can leave your intellect and your ego at the door, the matter is very simple and clear—there is no “secret” at all; it is as obvious as two and two make four.

Where the lover and the Beloved are, there is kingship and vizierate, Baba.
No crying, no washing away, no pain of captivity, Baba.
Day and night it is spring and play; such is the clear sky, Baba.
Those who became lovers—they know; this is the faqir’s secret, Baba.
At every moment laughter, at every moment joy, wealth at every hour, Baba.
When the lover becomes a blissful fakir, what sorrow can remain, Baba?

No tyranny, no force, no complaint, no appeal;
No prison, no bondage, no compulsion, no even “freedom.”
No disciple, no master; no desolation, no habitation.
All the world’s talk is forgotten; nothing remains to remember.
At every moment laughter, at every moment joy, wealth at every hour, Baba.
When the lover becomes a blissful fakir, what sorrow can remain, Baba?

Whichever way the glance is cast, there is the Beloved’s garden:
Here the green of foliage; there the beds of flowers.
Day and night they sit happy and intoxicated, and only His longing is heavy.
He alone is the Giver; He alone the Storekeeper.
At every moment laughter, at every moment joy, wealth at every hour, Baba.
When the lover becomes a blissful fakir, what sorrow can remain, Baba?

We are servants of that Beauty whose grace is supreme over all.
He it is who has granted us life; He it is who has nourished us.
Our hearts are guileless, and Love is greatly intoxicating.
What more can one say, Nazeer? Who now will understand?
At every moment laughter, at every moment joy, wealth at every hour, Baba.
When the lover becomes a blissful fakir, what sorrow can remain, Baba?

Yogananda, there is no great secret to ecstasy. We are born naturally in ecstasy. Fountains of joy flow within you just as underground springs flow beneath the earth. A little digging and there is a well. Remove a few layers of soil and the springs appear. Dig a little within yourself, and the kingdom of God is yours. What is to be done is almost nothing; what is to be received is everything.

Therefore, if you keep the receiving in view, the small effort needed for meditation is no effort at all. It is a cheap bargain. Unwise are those who miss this bargain: a little effort, and an immeasurable attainment.

You ask: “You are always bliss-intoxicated; what is the secret?” I recognized myself. I knew myself—and the essence of all the scriptures was attained. Run across the earth as you will and you will gain nothing; stop within—and gain all.

And do not ask, “When will I attain this ecstasy?” Why bring in “when,” when it can be now and here? Why postpone to tomorrow? Do not defer it. If you must ask me, never go beyond “now.” Tomorrow has no existence. Trust only this moment in hand. Whether tomorrow comes or not—when did tomorrow ever come? If you postpone to tomorrow and lose today, it will be a great mistake. People keep losing today worrying about tomorrow, staking everything on tomorrow, sacrificing today. Today is. Where is tomorrow? Life is today—now.

And I tell you: dive within yourself now. No one is stopping you. The house is yours, the door is yours; it is you who must go in. No one can obstruct you. Chains may be on your hands, fetters on your feet, prison walls all around, a guard with a gun at the gate, heavy locks on the door—yet no one can prevent your going within. No one can post a guard there, no one can fasten chains there. One who has learned to go within is free even in prison. One who has not learned—even if free—what freedom is that? His freedom is worth two pennies—political, superficial, merely outer.

The real dimension of freedom is spiritual. And that dimension opens now—never, ever leave it for tomorrow.

But people live by a strange arithmetic. They go on postponing. What is meaningful they will do tomorrow; what is meaningless they will do now.

Mulla Nasruddin’s psychologist gave him some advice—because Nasruddin said, “My office is going to ruin. Nobody works. As soon as I arrive, they start shuffling files; the moment I leave, their feet go back up on the tables. Nothing is getting done. Tell me a way!” The psychologist said, “Do this—an old maxim, spoken by the wise—and the wise don’t speak lightly. Hang it in every room, on every desk. If it stays in their awareness, some sense will dawn.”

An old saying you know well. Nasruddin hung it everywhere in beautiful letters so that every clerk, peon, manager, salesman would see it. The office was decorated with it:

What you would do tomorrow, do today; what you would do today, do now.
In a moment the world may end—when will you do it then?

A clear, simple message: what you plan for tomorrow, do today; what you plan for today, do now; for not even a moment is guaranteed.

Five or seven days later the psychologist learned that Nasruddin had been admitted to the hospital with multiple fractures—arm, leg, neck, the skull too. He went to see him. “What happened? Did you fall from ten stories?” Nasruddin said, “Brother, the rule you gave me—that is the result.” The psychologist said, “What rule did I give that would shatter your whole body?” Nasruddin said, “That very rule—the placards I spent so much money to put up everywhere—that’s what I’m suffering from.”

“What connection could that possibly have?” “First, listen fully,” Nasruddin said. “My treasurer ran away with the safe and left a note: ‘What you would do tomorrow, do today; what you would do today, do now. In a moment the world may end—when will you do it then?’ He wrote he’d long been thinking of running away with the safe, and always thought, ‘Tomorrow, or the day after.’ But you hung that mantra, and I thought, ‘It’s true.’ So off I go with the safe! My manager eloped with my typist too. He also left a note—on the very plaque on his desk—‘Thanks for the maxim! I’d been thinking for long…’ And that typist was not just my typist—she was also my beloved. The scoundrel took her! And then my peon barged in and began beating me. I asked, ‘What are you doing?’ He said, ‘All my life I’ve thought, if I ever get the chance I’ll break this wretch’s bones. When you hung that sign I said, Don’t miss! So I rushed right in.’”

The psychologist said, “I’m so sorry those rascals drew such meanings. It must hurt terribly.” Nasruddin said, “Not too much—except when I laugh.” “Why are you laughing?” “Because the wise truly say such pointed things! I followed one single rule and see what fruit I’ve reaped! Sometimes I can’t help laughing. Then it hurts—everything rattles. But the laughter comes. Everything ruined because of one plaque! And it was such a sound saying—it appealed to me too. It’s not just your fault; it’s mine as well. But brother, don’t give such advice to anyone again. What I suffered I wouldn’t wish on my enemies. And if you must give advice, first try it in your own office—then speak from experience!”

People postpone. The strange thing is, they don’t postpone the wrong. If someone abuses you, you won’t say, “All right, we’ll think it over, consult a few people, and when the time is right, we’ll respond.” When someone abuses you, you don’t look at the clock—auspicious times be damned—you handle it on the spot. Instantaneously. A moment’s delay is too much. He hurls an insult; you beat the drum and return it with double weight. But when it comes to giving in charity, you say, “We’ll think about it.” People think about sannyas for years.

My blessing can certainly be given, but it will not reach you. Because being an admirer is not enough; one has to pay something for it. One must show a little courage. One has to put a little something at stake. I am giving blessings—the issue is not my giving, it is your receiving. And what greater blessing could I give you than that sannyas flowers in you? What greater blessing is there? If you ask me for a blessing, the very first will be: become a sannyasin! And that is where the difficulty will begin.

What do you think—that I will bless you to bear a son, to win some election, to find a pot full of money by the roadside, that the roof burst and suddenly there is a shower of banknotes—do you think I would give you such a blessing? That your lap be filled? Such blessings I cannot give. If I bless, the first blessing will be sannyas—because there is no greater truth than that.

To live in the world in such a way that the world cannot touch you—that is sannyas. To be in the world yet have the world not be in you—that is the whole definition of sannyas. To pass through this blackened chamber and not be smeared by the soot. As Kabir says: “Just as it was, I returned the sheet; I wore the sheet with great care—just as it was, I returned it.” The meaning of sannyas is simply this: keep the cloth as it is, unstained.

But there are many like this—this woman is not the only one; every day I receive questions and letters: “We want to meet you, we want your blessing, but we don’t have the courage to take sannyas.”

Not a shred of courage! You have the courage to die? The courage to live? But not the courage to take sannyas! You even had the courage to be born—you didn’t once consider into what kind of world you were being born! And you were born in India. No hesitation came, no modesty, no shame. You leapt in stark naked! Not even with a loincloth, not even a veil—you jumped in absolutely naked! You didn’t even look where you were jumping—there is already so much uproar, such crowding everywhere—no worry, no concern.

At birth you did not think; at death you will not think either—just as birth happened, so death will happen. Sannyas is the one thing about which you can decide; there is nothing else really to think about. In this world there are only three great events: birth, death, and sannyas. Birth and death are not in your hands—they are compulsions. Sannyas is your freedom. And that is what you hesitate about. One who deprives himself of his freedom will not be able to receive blessings, even if he wants to.

My one blessing can only be this: that you pass through this world untouched—like the lotus in water! And your trouble is that you cannot take sannyas—and that itself is my blessing!

Yoganand, do at least this: whatever is futile, postpone it till tomorrow. If someone abuses you, say, “Come back after twenty-four hours and I’ll reply.” And if someone asks for love, give it now—do not delay even for a moment.

And what is there left outside worth seeing? You have seen it all! You have seen enough! You have seen happiness and you have seen sorrow; success and failure; wealth and poverty—you have seen it all; what remains outside to be seen now? Now look within. Before death arrives and the curtain falls, look within. And by looking within you will find that there is no longer any death and no birth either. Now, even if someone wishes to drop the curtain, it cannot be dropped.

But we are living in a swoon. Our stupor is quite extraordinary.

Yesterday, in the Punjab Kesari—a newspaper from Jalandhar—I was reading a report. It said that in the capital a Ramlila was going on. The scene was Shurpanakha’s nose being cut. When she came to Rama, a song began to play on a record in a nearby hotel:
“If someone like you were to come into my life, everything would be perfect,”
and Shurpanakha began to dance to this tune. The audience must have been astonished. Those who had dozed off must have woken up. No sooner was her nose cut than another song played:
“Whether it’s glass or a heart, in the end it breaks,”
and Shurpanakha again swayed and danced.

Such is the unconsciousness! Break this stupor. These records are playing in the hotels outside—how long will you keep dancing to them? Inside too a melody is playing—the melody of emptiness. A flute is sounding; the unstruck sound is resounding; awareness is awakening—listen to that.

After the first day’s match both teams broke open the bottles over dinner. The intoxication lingered till the next morning. At the start of play the next day, they began running for a run on the very first ball. The two batsmen at the crease were sprinting madly. Just then the bowler hopped over and whispered in the umpire’s ear: “Let the rascals run—I haven’t even bowled yet; here it is in my fist!” Who has any awareness! The poor fellows are running and running—and the ball hasn’t even been delivered!

I asked Mulla Nasruddin, “Mulla, what is this knot tied at the corner of your kurta?” Nasruddin said, “So that I remember to post my wife’s letter.” So I asked, “Then you posted the letter, right?” Nasruddin said, “No, sir—my wife forgot to give me the letter!”

Man lives almost in a stupor—he lives in a dreadful unconsciousness! And as long as there is unconsciousness, there is suffering. Unconsciousness means running outward. Awareness means coming to rest within.

Yoganand, come to rest within. Like a lamp that stands still where no gust of wind can reach. When your consciousness too becomes still like a lamp, you will find: bliss has descended. To say “descended” is not quite right—it was there all along; only when the flame is still do you come to know it. Until now you did not know; now there is recognition.

Bliss is our nature.

Kanhaiyalal Gorakshak, you won’t understand—and that’s that! At least in the twentieth century, drop this “gorakshak” business. Kanhaiyalal is quite enough. From that alone it’s clear: Hail Kanhaiyalal! And then, on top of it, “cow-protector”!

Mulla Nasruddin fell off his donkey, so I went to see him. His wife told me the donkey had done something amazing. Nasruddin fell into a ditch and couldn’t get up; the donkey ran off and brought a doctor. Nasruddin, still lying in bed, said, “He’s a donkey, through and through! What the hell did he go and fetch a doctor for! The wretch should have brought a veterinarian!”

Who knows, maybe he fetched you, Kanhaiyalal “cow‑protector”! Because from your name it sounds as if you’re a vet—what’s the story? You yourself have already misplaced your understanding. How will you understand anything—first there has to be understanding for something to be understood!

This is exactly what I’m saying: children are born gifted. You were not born “Kanhaiyalal,” nor “cow‑protector.” When you were born you were a blank book; people wrote on you: “Kanhaiyalal Gorakshak.” Since then, you have been Kanhaiyalal Gorakshak—whatever others write, you become. Someone writes “Hindu,” someone writes “Muslim,” someone writes “Christian,” and that’s what you become.

Children are born like blank sheets of paper, and then we do the writing—we do the soiling. Then more and more overwriting is done; slowly the blank sheet disappears and only blackness remains.

There was a lovely woman in Rajasthan, Bhurabai. From the very first meditation camp I held, she began attending—she came even to the first one. Her devotees also came. She was respected in Rajasthan—a sweet soul, utterly simple. A real sadhu, not like your so‑called saints.

Her devotees said to me, “She listens to you. She won’t listen to anyone else. Please tell her—this is our request—that she should write down her experience. She can’t write herself, but we’ll write it for her if she dictates. She’s past seventy now; she may not live very long—please persuade her.”

Kalidas Bhatia, a High Court advocate who had given up law practice and washed Bhurabai’s clothes, told me, “This is our humble prayer. Living with her for twenty years I’ve seen there are many jewels here. But she won’t let us write anything, nor will she dictate.”

I told Bhurabai, “They’re so troubled by this—do write it down.” She was seventy, but she called me Bapji and said, “Bapji, if you say so, all right. I’ll have it written. That rascal Kalidas has been after me for a long time—he’s found a clever trick now, bringing you in. If you say so, I’ll do it. When you come again, what Kalidas wants will be done.”

When I went again, all the devotees came carrying a beautiful wooden casket with a lock on it—Kalidas Bhatia himself bore it on his head. They came with this lovely casket; Bhurabai also came, laughing. And Kalidas said, “Please inaugurate it. Bhurabai has written a book—she didn’t let us write. We didn’t even know she knew how to write! She wrote in secret, under lock and key, saying she would have you inaugurate it. We have no idea what she’s written—we’re very eager to see what book it is.” The key was with Bhurabai; she gave it to me so I could open the chest and place the book before everyone.

I opened the chest. The “book” was small, ten or twelve pages. Perhaps one or two inches long, an inch and a half wide, ten or twelve pages. I opened it—and it was completely black. Nothing written at all! Not even white pages—completely black. And Bhurabai burst into giggles.

I said, “Good—consider it inaugurated. Bhurabai has written an excellent scripture. Others, when they write, blacken things a little; she has written so much she’s made it all black. She wrote and wrote...”

Bhurabai said, “I told you, Bapji would recognize it. I thought: if one must write, why be stingy—write with an open heart! Once in a lifetime, so write it fully. Let Kalidas be satisfied. And with his name ‘Kalidas’—kala, black—I was reminded to make it black. That rascal’s been hounding me! So here is the scripture!”

The inauguration was done. The devotees were disappointed: “This is madness. We brought the casket with such fanfare—who knew we’d be made a joke of!” But what she said was apt: why be stingy? If you’re going to write, write the whole of it.

And you too don’t hold back—this is exactly what’s happening with children. Parents are writing, neighbors are writing, people in the lane are writing, schoolteachers are writing, lecturers are writing, professors are writing—people just keep writing—leaders and social reformers, anyone who comes along writes. Who doesn’t advise children? People give unsolicited advice. The very counsel they never followed themselves, they try to force upon children. They smear them, they blacken them. Their talent gets destroyed.

Now if someone is a Hindu, a Muslim, a Christian—what talent will there be? If there is genius, he cannot be a Hindu. If he has talent, the ninety‑nine percent rubbish in Hindu scriptures will be visible to him—how then will he be a Hindu? If he is truly gifted, he cannot be a Jain, cannot be a Buddhist, cannot be a Muslim. He can be a Buddha, can be a Krishna—he will be; can be a Jesus, can be a Mohammed—he will be—but he cannot be “a Muslim,” cannot be “a Christian.”

Remember, Jesus was not a Christian, Buddha was not a Buddhist, and Krishna was not a Hindu. Krishna had never even heard the word “Hindu.” He could never have imagined that one day this word would be stamped on the skulls of this people. Those who did the stamping were others. Even the word “Hindu” is not ours; it’s borrowed—a borrowing so total that nothing is one’s own, not even the word.

The first foreigners who came here—the Huns and Babar’s people—in their language “h” was pronounced for “s”; so the Sindhu river they called “Hindu.” And those who lived around the Sindhu became “Hindus.” In fact, Hindu means Sindhu; Hindi means Sindhi. Only a Sindhi has the right to call himself a Hindu; no one else. And the Sindhis have gone even further; where do they care for Hindu and all that! In Ulhasnagar they’ve opened a factory. In Ulhasnagar, if something isn’t made, assume it isn’t made anywhere in the world.

I’ve heard of a competition to find where the finest craftsmanship exists. In America they made a wire so thin that no one else could match it—couldn’t be seen with the naked eye, thinner than a hair; you needed special instruments to see it. They took that wire to Germany. German craftsmen drilled a hole through it. The Americans were stunned: this is the limit—drilling a hole through the wire! Then they went to Japan. The Japanese wrote a verse from the Bible on that wire. Astonishing! “Now who can surpass this?” they said. But someone told them, “Go to Ulhasnagar. There’s one place left—Ulhasnagar.” “Where is Ulhasnagar?” they asked.

They found their way there. A Sindhi craftsman in Ulhasnagar wrote on the wire: “Made in U.S.A.” Very finely. They asked, “You’ve crossed the limit! You live in India—Ulhasnagar is in India. Why write ‘Made in U.S.A.’? Why not ‘Made in India’?” He said, “Is the U.S.A. your father’s? It belongs to the Sindhis! ‘Made in U.S.A.’ means: Made in Ulhasnagar Sindhi Association. U.S.A.—Ulhasnagar Sindhi Association.”

They don’t bother with “India”; they’ve gone far beyond. Everything becomes “Made in U.S.A.”—though it’s made in Ulhasnagar.

Only a Sindhi, if you insist, may be called a Hindu. No one else needs that label. Yet from this word “Hindu” all the other words were derived.

Later, when the Greeks came, in their language there was another shift: they called Sindhu “Sindas” or “Hindas.” By the time the word reached Greece with Alexander it became “Indus,” and from Indus, “India.”

Both “India” and “Hindu” were born from “Sindhu”; both were given by foreigners, not by you. And you talk of talent! What kind of genius is “a Hindu,” “a Muslim,” “a Christian”? A truly gifted person is simply a human being. And little children are born as human beings. You can see their genius everywhere.

Nephew: “Uncle, thank you very, very much for the tiny toy you brought me for my birthday!”
Uncle said, “Son, what is there to thank me for?”
The nephew said, “That’s my opinion too. But Mommy said I should say thank you anyway.”
Genius!

A little boy asks his father, “Where were you born, Papa?”
“Bombay,” the father says.
“And Mommy?”
“Mommy was born in Madras.”
“And where was I born?”
“In Calcutta,” says the father.
The child asks, “Papa, one thing I don’t understand—how did the three of us ever get together?”
Bombay here, Madras there, Calcutta there! What a wonder!

A woman saw a child smoking by the roadside. She said, “Does your father know you smoke?”
The child replied, “No. But does your husband know that you stop in the bazaar and chat up strangers in public?”

Children are gifted. Just watch them, listen to them—you’ll find them more intelligent than grown‑ups.

That’s all for today.