Lagan Mahurat Jhooth Sab #5

Anand Kiran, the word subhāṣita is very lovely. Perhaps no other language in the world has quite such a word. It evokes many resonances—of blossoming flowers, of a flute playing, of the taste of nectar, of sweetness.

Life does hold poison—but for the one who neither recognizes nor knows. For the one who recognizes and knows, this very life becomes nectar. A foolish man can fill his house with manure and there will only be stench everywhere; a wise man does not pile the manure inside the house, he spreads it in the garden—and from that very manure the fragrance of flowers arises. Words become abuses, and words become subhāṣita—well-spoken, auspicious sayings.

We have called those statements subhāṣita that were uttered by the buddhas, by awakened ones, in whose words there is the resonance of the void. They are not only sweet in the void; they are not merely “well-said”; they are even sweeter in living. They carry hints, pointings—fingers raised toward the distant moon. Like a flower that opens—the lotus blossoming at dawn; it emerges from the mud. Who, looking at the mud, would trust that a lotus could be born out of it! The very word “kamal” (lotus) means born from filth, born from mire.

The Sanskrit for lotus is “pankaja.” Panka means mud; ja means born—born of mud. Sanskrit has some beauties! Because many of those who shaped it, wove it, gave it form and color, had hands that were the hands of buddhas. Everything depends on whose hands the flute falls into. The flute is hollow—who will sing the song? The buddhas touched words and gave them the form of samadhi.

The lotus blooms from the mud. It rises from it, is born of it. It was hidden in the mud itself. Neither, looking at mud, can one say a lotus lies hidden within, nor, seeing a lotus, can one say it was born from mud. Yet between lotus and mud lies the whole story of life. Every person is born like mud, but he arrives bearing the potential to become a lotus.

And then, the lotus floats upon the lake—yet the water of the lake does not touch it. In the lake, yet not of the lake. It is in the lake, but untouched. It is there, but unstained. The lotus is in the lake, but the lake cannot enter the lotus. This is precisely the lifestyle of a sannyasin.

So too with subhāṣita. They are in words, but do not clutch at the words, otherwise you will miss. There is far more in them than the words. If you grab only the words, nothing will be caught—only the husk will fall into your hands; the inner essence will be missed. Put the husk aside, remove the words. Do not get entangled in the net of words. Those tangled in that net are called pundits. Look into the words, listen to the silence within them, experience the stillness. If you focus on words, philosophy becomes a jungle without end—thickets upon thickets, growing denser by the day, and entanglement increasing. Meditate on the words!

Subhāṣita are for meditation. Drink them! Silently, in stillness, let them descend within. Let them become your flesh, marrow, bone, blood. Let them flow in you like a stream of sap. This is a different process altogether. To analyze is the affair of the intellect; to drink and digest is existential, not intellectual. Then these little sayings—these tiny flowers—conceal so much! In each subhāṣita, a Veda lies hidden.

Satyam tapo japo jñāna sarvā vidyāḥ kalā api. Narasya niṣphalāḥ santi yasya śīla na vidyate. “Where there is no śīla, there austerity, truth, japa, knowledge, learning, and art are all in vain.”

What is this śīla? Anand Kiran, the translation you have is already off the mark. The mistake entered with the translation—there the punditry crept in. Whoever did that translation missed; the arrow did not strike the right point. Translators translate words. If only these subhāṣita were mere words, translating them would be very easy. Only those established in meditation, in samadhi, can truly translate them.

Your rendering says: “śīla, that is, pure character.” Once that “that is,” and then “pure character,” are brought in, confusion follows; everything gets muddled; you have mixed jaggery with dung; the lotus has turned to mud. Śīla and character—what a distance between them, as between earth and sky! If you understand this difference, the meaning of the subhāṣita begins to unfold.

Character is imposed from the outside. What others teach you is character. What arises from your own interior is śīla. Śīla means: an eye opened by meditation; then your movements, your gait, your way of living—that is śīla.

Your own eyes are shut, you are blind; someone has put a stick in your hand, someone has pointed a direction, “go this way, that way, turn left, turn right”—and off you go. You are not certain what you are doing, not certain whether you are going right or not, not even certain whether the guide you took was himself blind or had eyes; perhaps he too took his direction from someone else! Thus instructions keep passing down through the centuries.

Nanak has said: “The blind leading the blind, both fall into the well.” The blind push the blind, the blind lead the blind, and both fall into the well. The blind have a world of their own. The blind can only imitate. Character is imitation.

Mulla Nasruddin went to the Eid prayer. When he bent down, one tail of his kurta got stuck in the waistband of his pajama at the back. The man behind noticed—undignified—and with a tug freed the shirt from the pajama. Nasruddin thought, there must be some secret to this! Why else would the man behind give such a tug? Perhaps it’s a part of the ritual! So he grabbed the shirt of the man in front and gave a tug. The man ahead also thought it must be part of the prayer, so he tugged the shirt of the man in front of him. The next man startled, said, “Why are you jerking my shirt?” He replied, “Don’t ask me, ask the one behind.” The one behind said, “Don’t ask me, this Mulla Nasruddin behind me!” Nasruddin said, “Don’t drag me into it! It’s the rascal behind me who tugged my shirt; thinking that the prayer should be performed systematically, I tugged too. I’ve no hand in this!”

And so you have been doing for centuries. This doing is called character. Character is imitation. There is neither awareness nor intelligence; no contemplation, no understanding; others are doing it, so you are doing it too. You were born in a particular household; there a certain code of conduct prevailed, so you are fulfilling that. If you fail to conform you feel guilty, and if you do conform, no flowers bloom in your life.

This is the dilemma of character—and also its mark. Fulfill it, and life is desolate, dreary. Do not fulfill it, and there is guilt, self-reproach. Trouble in every case! Fulfill it—trouble. Look at your saints and holy men—gloomy. No smiles in life, no fireworks of laughter, no festival of joy, no lamps are lit, no colors, no gulal, neither Holi nor Diwali. Dry, arid people like a desert; seeing them, anyone could grow disenchanted with life; life might appear futile—no wonder. And this is their sermon, and their lives the proof of their preaching—that life is futile.

But I tell you: life is not futile. Because hidden in life is truth; hidden in life is liberation; hidden in life is the divine. Hidden in this life is the whole empire of the eternal, the sanatan. Esho dhammo sanantano—this life itself is the eternal dharma. And this life manifests in so many colors and forms!

However, if you keep walking by following someone else, then your connection with life will never be made. You will remain split, and you will grow sad. Imitation means becoming hollow, fake; a counterfeit coin; hypocrisy. Character is hypocrisy. That is why I say: a sannyasin has no character. He has śīla, but no character.

Character is an external arrangement. Hence the Hindu’s character is different, the Muslim’s different, the Jain’s different, the Buddhist’s different, the Sikh’s different, the Parsi’s different. But śīla is not different. The śīla of Buddha is the same as that of Krishna, Mahavira, Lao Tzu, Zarathustra. Śīla cannot be different. Conduct can be infinitely varied.

There is nothing in the world that in some land, some tribe, some era, has not been honored; and there is nothing that somewhere, sometime, by someone, has not been dishonored. There are thousands of tribes on earth. There are people who do what you cannot even imagine; and there are people who laugh at what you are doing. With character, this dilemma will always remain.

A Christian missionary was captured by cannibals in the African jungle. He tried to reason, “What are you doing, killing a man, killing me! I’m not so worried about my life, but what are you doing! Is it right to eat a human being?” The cannibals replied—it was during the Second World War—“And you would teach us! We hear the news too—millions are being killed. We ask you: when you kill so many people, what do you do with them? If someone kills to eat, one can understand. You neither eat nor drink—just kill! That is sheer stupidity. We kill only when we are going to eat. You kill without even eating! And not one or two—millions. And we have heard that this is your history as well. And you call us inhuman! And you are humans!”

It is worth pondering. In three thousand years man has fought five thousand wars—slaughtered billions! And these slaughterers think that cannibals—who eat humans—are worse than animals, while the ones who kill billions are Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Jains, Buddhists—religious people.

If we accept the scriptural account of the Mahabharata war—though it should not be accepted—then roughly one and a quarter billion people died in that war. One and a quarter billion! Even today the whole population of the earth is about four billion. One and a quarter billion died in that war! And the killers were killing in the name of religion: dharmakshetre Kurukshetre! That battlefield was the field of dharma. To protect religion, slaughter was being done. To protect dharma, slaughter! Will dharma be protected by adharma?

The cannibal spoke truly: we eat occasionally, and only kill when we are hungry; we don’t kill like you! You are worse than animals! The missionary was shaken by this logic. There was strength in it. Still, to save his life he had to try further. He said, “You have no taste for religion.” They said, “Oh yes we do! We’ve already eaten two missionaries before! You are not new. We wait for missionaries. We lack no taste for religion—you do. Have you ever eaten a missionary? Have you ever eaten a priest? A pundit? A saint? We’ve digested them all. We speak from experience—we’ve tasted them all. And you ask us whether we have a taste for religion!”

Conduct will be strange and varied.

There is an African tribe that eats ants. They collect ants and ant eggs; little children, spotting an ant, pop it right in. You cannot eat a vegetable if you find a dead ant in it! They consider it a delicacy. They gather ants, dry them, keep them. When a guest comes—ants for snacks.

In China people eat snake. Snake curry is regarded as very precious. Not only laypeople—Buddhist monks too.

About the famous Buddhist monk Lin-chi, it is recorded that a distinguished guest—a minister, a man of great rank and wealth—had come. In his honor Lin-chi fed the whole monastery. Five hundred monks sat with him to dine. The minister sat next to Lin-chi. When the cooks served, the head cook put some curry on Lin-chi’s and the minister’s plates. Lin-chi was a little surprised; he picked something up and showed it to the cook—what is this? It was the snake’s head. The head is not put in; it is cut off and thrown away—because the poison gland is in the head. The curry is made from the rest of the body, leaving the head. This story is told with great respect in the Zen records—and there is a reason.

When he showed the head, what did the cook do? He too was a monk, the monastery cook. He immediately took the head from Lin-chi’s hand, popped it into his own mouth, and said, “Thank you!” The master was very pleased. He did not hesitate, he did not flinch—he put even the snake’s head in his mouth. Thus he swallowed the whole matter. No one understood what had happened. People assumed the monk had been given some sweet, some delicious prasad.

But snake curry was eaten. It is eaten even today. Just yesterday’s newspaper carried a report that in China a man eats one snake every day. If he doesn’t get a snake, he feels weak and dull. He must have a snake. It’s a nutritious diet; he cannot live without it.

Elsewhere in the world, no one would even think of eating snake! There are people who eat scorpions too. And one clings to whatever family, culture, and conditioning one is born into—there is nothing else to cling to. Parents teach; teachers, gurus, priests all teach; and one begins to behave accordingly.

This behavior is not śīla. It is utterly hollow. It is like garments put on from outside. A mask. As if someone had painted your face, made it pretty. A little rain and it will all run off. A drizzle and the whole secret is out.

Therefore, Anand Kiran, do not render śīla as “pure character.” And your mind—or whoever translated it—was not satisfied with “character” alone, he added “pure” too. Character is not enough, it must be pure. Love is not enough, pure love. Milk is not enough, pure milk. Our minds have become adulterated; there is adulteration in everything. Nowadays even lovers tell their beloveds, “This is absolutely pure love, a hundred percent—don’t think there’s any adulteration, no water mixed in; it’s pure love, not filmy.”

Now nothing is pure. Hence the insistence on purity keeps increasing. When pure ghee was available, shops did not need to put up signs “Pure ghee sold here.” “Ghee sold here” was enough. Since pure ghee is no longer available, signs say, “Pure ghee sold here.”

Now things have worsened further—now even “pure dalda” is sold. Even dalda is no longer pure, so they put up signs for “pure dalda.” Earlier, dalda itself was the impure thing. Now dalda is “pure,” because there are people adulterating even rubbishy ghee—adding tallow or anything at hand.

Now even medicines are unreliable. You may be taking an injection thinking it’s a drug—perhaps it’s only water. And that water is not necessarily pure either.

So we are not content with just “character.” Character must mean pure; and “characterlessness” must mean impure. What does “pure character” even mean? But adulteration has entered our heads. First, character is not what śīla means—it is external show. And second, you add “pure” to it—making the show even more false.

Śīla means: one who, in the emptiness of meditation, has recognized his inner being; who has connected with the center in the void; who has joined with the very life of life; who for the first time has known that “I am not just the circumference, I am the center too”; and whose circumference has begun to be influenced by the center—that is called śīla. Śīla is what sprouts from within you; character is what is imposed from above. Like hanging paper flowers on trees. Perhaps they may fool a passer-by.

But whom are you fooling? Will you fool the bees? Not a single bee will sit on your paper flowers. Will you fool the bumblebees? No bumble will hum a song near your paper blossoms. Whom are you deceiving? Even if you deceive everyone, you will still know the flowers are paper—you hung them yourself. You cannot deceive yourself. You cannot deceive the tree. The tree will not pour sap into those paper flowers. And even if it did, they would rot and die; that life-giving sap would be death for them. True flowers grow on the tree; they are its limbs.

Śīla is a true flower—grown within you, blossomed within you. Not fake, not bazaar-made, not paper. Then the meaning of this subhāṣita opens. I do not render śīla as “pure character.” Drop that “that is, pure character.” Remove the very idea. Say only this: if there is no śīla, truth does not happen in a person’s life.

What will happen? If truth is, śīla will be; if śīla is, truth will be. The knowing of the center of one’s life—that very knowing, that recognition, is what we call the experience of truth. And where there is self-experience, there is tapas.

What is the meaning of tapas? Understand this word.

People think tapas means tormenting oneself, melting oneself down, harassing and troubling oneself. Then tapas becomes a kind of self-violence. Then there are two types of people in the world: those who torment others, and those who torment themselves. As far as torment is concerned, there is no difference between them. The categories are not different: if one torments others we call him wicked; if he torments himself we call him a saint. What strange people we are! Our categories are strange, our definitions astounding!

The one who torments others is not as wicked, because the other can defend himself. But the one who torments himself is very wicked indeed, because there is no one left to defend him. The one he took to be his protector has turned tormentor. The one he sought protection from has begun to kill him. Who will save him now? What he considered his defense has proved false.

Hence those who are cowards and fear tormenting others—because tormenting others is risky, dangerous; like poking a beehive!—they begin to torment themselves. And the irony is that these very cowards become your saints and great men. You bow your head at their feet; they are the ones worshipped.

This is not the meaning of tapas. Tapas means—its meaning is hidden in the word itself—tapas, that is, heat. An energy, a warmth. As if the sun has risen within. As if all life-energy has awakened. As if sleeping sources have opened. Springs have burst forth. A radiance, an ojas.

The person who has known his own truth will have a certain heat—a heat of revolution, of rebellion. There will be a fiery quality in his life. Because the lamp of self-light is lit within. His heart will not be cold like ice, not a dead heart; it will be living. Tapas means energy, warmth. As when the sun rises—the flowers that were closed through the night open; the birds who slept all night awaken; throats that were quiet all night suddenly burst into song. So too, with the experience of truth, energy enters your life. The sun rises, flowers bloom, awakening comes—and song and dance and festivity.

Tapas is not torturing oneself; it is allowing one’s life-energy to manifest at its peak. And where life-energy manifests at its peak, its ultimate result will certainly be creation—art. Energy will make you a creator. Whether you compose songs, sculpt forms, paint pictures—whatever you do, there will be a beauty in it, a culture in it. You will touch mud and it will turn to gold. And the name for turning mud to gold is art.

Until you have known your own truth, recognized śīla, experienced the inner center, everything is false; with that, everything becomes true. Know the One—yourself—and flowers will blossom in your life—so many that you never imagined. So many songs that you never dreamt could be your destiny! So much joy, so much dance, so much energy that dance is bound to erupt, joy is bound to awaken. Energy cannot help but dance—springs will break forth!

Only then is there japa. Those who sit wrapped in a blanket of God’s name, with rosary in hand, chanting like the dead—such japa has no value. Japa means: when delight pulsates in your life, when a wave of gratitude arises within you—when you bow to the divine—or even without the word divine, to existence itself—to offer thanks: that bowing is japa. It can be silent or voiced.

Before self-realization, what you call knowledge is rubbish—bookish, scriptural. After self-experience, there is knowledge. Knowledge is one: to know oneself.

The Upanishads make a unique distinction—never made anywhere else. What we today call science, the Upanishads call avidyā—non-knowledge. Outer knowledge: geography, history, mathematics, physics, chemistry—all outer knowing is avidyā, say the Upanishads. And inner knowing is vidyā.

Thus only one thing remains as knowledge: to know oneself, self-realization. All the rest is avidyā—useful for practical purposes perhaps, but it brings no liberation, begets no joy, yields no nectar. Knowledge is that which liberates.

Sa vidyā yā vimuktaye. That alone is vidyā which brings freedom. This is the definition of vidyā—that which brings freedom. That which binds is not vidyā. That which opens all bonds, that is vidyā, that is knowledge.

Satyam tapo japo jñāna sarvā vidyāḥ kalā api. Narasya niṣphalāḥ santi yasya śīla na vidyate. Without śīla, nothing at all; with inner light, everything. Therefore my emphasis is on just one thing—only one thing: at any cost, samadhi must be attained. Meditation must be awakened. The summit of meditation must be touched—that is samadhi, sambodhi, buddhahood. Touch that, and all the rest will be transformed. Without touching it, you may play the veena a thousand times—technically you might become a veena player, but your playing will lack life. The strings will vibrate, a song will come from the lips, but not from the heart.

Akbar once said to Tansen, “Hearing your veena, it occurs to me that perhaps never in the world has anyone played better than you, nor will anyone ever play better. I cannot imagine anything beyond this.”

Tansen said, “Forgive me, perhaps you do not know—my master is still alive. If you hear his veena just once—you will see the distance between him and me.”

Akbar’s curiosity was aroused. “Then call him!”

Tansen said, “That’s why I never raised the topic. You always praised me, and I quietly swallowed it like one swallows poison—because my guru is alive, and in his presence what is my praise! It is like showing a lamp to the sun. I kept silent, but today I could not restrain myself, the words slipped out. I did not speak earlier because you would immediately say, ‘Call him.’ Then I would be in difficulty, for he does not come just like that. If the mood takes him, he plays in the forest where there is no listener; sometimes wild animals gather to listen, trees listen, mountains listen. But he never plays on request. He will not come to court. Even if by some means he comes, and we ask him to play—he will not.”

Akbar asked, “Then what must be done? How can we hear him?”

Tansen said, “There is only one way. I know that he rises at three in the morning; he lives in Agra on the bank of the Yamuna—his name is Haridas. We must go at night and hide. We must leave at two, for he may play at three, or four, or five; but once, early in the morning after his bath, he certainly plays. We will have to listen stealthily—from behind the hut.”

Perhaps never in history did a great emperor like Akbar secretly listen to someone’s veena—but Akbar went. Both hid behind a bush near the hut. Around three, Haridas returned from the river after his bath, picked up his veena, and played. An hour passed as if a moment. The outer veena fell silent, but the raga that had settled within Akbar remained.

Half an hour later Tansen nudged him, “Dawn is near; let us go. How long will we sit? The veena has stopped.”

Akbar said, “The outer veena has stopped, but within it is still playing. I have heard you many times—when you stop, it stops. This is the first time that my inner strings, too, seem plucked. Truly, today I say—you were right: where are you, and where your master!” Tears flowed from Akbar’s eyes. “I have heard so much music—why such a difference? And such a difference even between your music and your master’s—like earth and sky.”

Tansen said, “It is no great mystery. I play in order to get something; he plays because he has gotten something. His playing is the expression of attainment, of realization. My playing is technical; I know how to play, I know the whole mathematics of it—but not the spirituality of playing! And even when I play, my eyes are on the future, on the reward: today what will you give—diamond necklace? a string of pearls? fill my bag with gold, with coins? Even when I play, my gaze is fixed on the fruit. He plays—there is no fruit, no future; the present moment is all. In his life, means and end are not two; the means itself is the end. In my life they are still far apart. Playing is my means. I am a professional. His playing is delight, not a means. He is intoxicated. He has drunk.”

And one who has drunk the divine—some of that wine will certainly flow in his playing! It will reach even those who have sworn never to drink; it will enter their throats too. If you sit near a true drinker, a real inebriate, then despite your vows the wine will seep into your heart—breaking your oaths, breaking your rules, fasts, observances. Joy will sweep you away. Only when you are swept away will you know—ah, how far you have gone! Very far indeed!

If there is śīla, all the rest arrives of its own. Without śīla, you may pile up all kinds of equipment—you are only collecting junk. There will be no liberation; you will be crushed under the junk. Śīla is freedom. Character is bondage.

Veena Bharti! I barely get past one temptation, and then another appears! That’s why the sages have said this ocean of becoming is endless! Where did this begin—from lassi. I somehow got free of lassi, and it moved on to boondi. Escaped boondi, and it became rasmalai. Somehow swam across rasmalai, reached ice cream—now this curd and sugar! Look, Veena, this is not how you corrupt a renunciate, an ascetic! No such temptations! In just this way people have been corrupted away from yoga—by this curd and sugar!

I would certainly come—because I have no difficulty in being corrupted—but then I think of you, that you might get into trouble! I could come, and you say the promise has to be kept, so I will keep it; if curd and sugar has to be eaten, we will eat. But the danger is: if I suddenly show up at your door, your heartbeat might stop! Then who will feed me curd and sugar? For curd and sugar to be made, your heart must keep beating! Give me solid assurance that if I come to your door your pulse will not stop. And don’t make me an accomplice in killing a woman! And then I think of your children too, and of Chitranjan as well—what will happen to these poor ones!

I drink with my eyes—let this ambience not change; Don’t lower your gaze now, lest the night should fade away. I drink with my eyes...

My tears are in it too—lest this wine should boil over; Whoever touches my goblet—may your hand not burn. I drink with my eyes...

Master of my life, place your hand upon my heart; In the joy of your coming, may my breath not leave me. I drink with my eyes...

The night still has some hours left—do not lift the veil, O cupbearer; Lest your drunkard, falling, somehow steadies himself again. I drink with my eyes—let this ambience not change.

I am afraid of this. I would keep the promise, but I am afraid: In the joy of your coming, my breath might leave me. Not only am I afraid; I am quite sure of it. If I came to your door, Veena, your breath would stop!

And the truth is: where is your home now? I am your home. Where are you calling me now? I have called you to me! My sannyasins have become my own. For them, what home, what door! If they are still somewhere, it is only because I have told them to stay there. And Veena—if I were to say today, Stay here, you would stay right here; you wouldn’t even go outside the door.

And very soon I will hold you back. It’s time to arrange that those who have joined their hearts to mine make this satsang into an ocean, become its limbs, drown in it. One lamp can light thousands of lamps. And when thousands of lamps are lit together, when Diwali happens—that is when the sangha is born.

The disciples of Buddha used to make three prayers at Buddha’s feet. Buddham sharanam gachchhami. The first prayer is: we go for refuge to the one who has awakened. Then the second: Sangham sharanam gachchhami. We go for refuge to those who have gone with the awakened one. The first prayer: we take refuge in the lamp; the second: we take refuge in all the lamps that have been lit from that lamp—the sangha. And the third prayer: Dhammam sharanam gachchhami. The lamps—whether Buddha himself or the lamps lit from him—today or tomorrow will disappear; they will enter nirvana. The word nirvana comes from the extinguishing of a lamp. Nirvana means: the lamp going out. These lamps are manifest today; tomorrow they will become unmanifest. Today they are expressed; tomorrow they will dissolve into the void. But the secret by which these lamps are lit—the dhamma—we take refuge in that.

The journey begins with refuge in Buddha; in the middle comes the sangha; and in the end comes the dhamma.

My sannyasins have completed the first prayer. Now the time is coming to complete the second: Sangham sharanam gachchhami. Very soon this sangha will come into being, Veena; you are going to be part of it. Bring along all the curd and sugar!

And did you notice the fun—that’s why they say the world is round—we started with lassi and again it is curd and sugar; and curd and sugar means, once again, lassi! It won’t do without lassi. Hide as much as you like—you cannot escape. Lassi contains great metaphysics; it cools body and mind!

The promise I made to you, I have fulfilled in a way a hundred thousand times over. Whether you recognize it or not! I had promised that I would come to your house, and how I fulfilled it: I called you to my house! If I had fulfilled it only to the extent of coming to your house, I would have left again in a day. By calling you, now there is no way to go! The promise is fulfilled. And you know too that it is fulfilled!

Vimal Kishore! Brother, one could go on at great length! But understand more from a little. There is danger in elaboration. I have stayed in thousands of homes across India, and yet, counting on my fingers, I can name only that many whom I would truly call a couple. My definition of a couple is upside down—it’s not their fault, nor yours! My definition is: those who remain lovers even after marriage. A very difficult matter!

Before marriage, love is very easy. Any fool can do it. In fact, only fools do it. For love to remain after marriage—not just as talk, but truly remain—is hard, daunting work. Marriage razes everything to the ground. Every pair begins the journey like an ideal couple, and within a few steps the ideal starts to fall. I can hardly name five. Two I named to you yesterday. One is the pair of Veena and Chitranjan—who are still lovers after marriage, lovers just as they must have been before. Marriage could do nothing to them, made no difference at all. One pair I mentioned was Manik Babu and Sohan. One is Kapil and Kusum. One is Premtirth and Neelam. One is Chaitanya and Chetana. Just a few such pairs. I have roamed all over India, but for love to survive after marriage is very difficult.

Even in a comedy film we, instead of laughing, wept over our fate; the missus sat in the hall watching the picture, while I took the little one for a walk outside!

Even in a comedy film we, instead of laughing, wept over our fate; the missus sat in the hall watching the picture, while I took the little one for a walk outside!

The other day when I went to see Chandulal, I found husband and wife sitting with long faces. I asked, “What happened, Chandulal?” In a sad voice he said, “What shall I tell you! God, yesterday Tillu’s mother and I were visiting Mulla Nasruddin’s place. That fool pushed his children forward and said to me, ‘Arre Chandulal, they’re yours!’ From that very moment Tillu’s mother has been after my life! Her anger has shot to the seventh heaven. She keeps saying, Why did he say those children are yours? What does that mean?”

In a dream Chandulal shouted, “You’re mad!” His wife said, “Hey, wretch, what did you say?” Again, still in his sleep, Chandulal said, “You’re mad!” She shook him and said, “Bastard! What did you say—say it again!” By then his sleep broke. Chandulal said, “Oh, it’s you? I’m mad! If anything was misspoken in sleep, forgive me, Tillu’s mother! What can one do—it was sleep!”

But truths reveal themselves in sleep. A psychologist asks you about your dreams because in waking life such a fog of falsehood lies over everything. One has to rely on dreams in the hope that there at least the truth may slip out.

A husband came home and found his wife in bed with his close friend. He screamed, “What is going on?” The wife said to his friend, “See, didn’t I tell you—he’s a complete novice!”

Because of a quarrel with his wife, Chandulal broke an arm and had to go to the hospital. There he noticed a man with bandages on both arms. He asked in amazement, “Sir, do you have two wives?”

There are many pairs—but what pairs!

Times are tight—prices soaring, income a half-anna and expenses a rupee. Poor Dhabbuji grew quite anxious: how will the household run? But his good lady began to suspect. One day she said, “Listen, for months I’ve seen you sitting quietly, sighing cold sighs. Haven’t you started some love affair?”

He is caught in the ninety-nine loop, sighing cold sighs; but the wife is calculating whether a love affair has begun!

The moment marriage happens, suspicion begins. If the husband laughs—suspicion. If the wife laughs—the husband suspects. If the wife appears cheerful, the husband wonders what’s up. If the husband appears cheerful, the wife wonders what the matter is. Watch husbands and wives walking together: whenever you see a pair walking along looking gloomy, understand that they are a married couple! If they look cheerful, understand that the wife belongs to someone else and the husband to someone else; only then do they appear so happy.

Dhabbuji returned home late at night. His wife flared up and said, “Is this a fine time to come home! Quickly give me an explanation—where were you till two in the morning? And tell the truth!” Dhabbuji said calmly, “First decide whether you want an explanation or the truth. I can’t manage both together.”

Who can manage both together!

Picasso went to a billionaire and said, “I’ll paint your wife’s portrait so alive it will speak.” The rich man replied, “Spare me, brother. She’s already made life miserable here; if the picture too starts talking, living will be impossible.”

A husband, pleading pressure of work, expressed his inability to accompany his wife to her parents’ place. No sooner had he said it than the wife began grumbling in anger: “Whenever it’s about going to my parents, you hedge. You run from my folks as though they’ll devour you. If you were so irritated, why did you get married and come to take me away?” “At that time forty wedding guests were with me,” the husband said. “I wasn’t alone!”

Reading this incident I understood why one has to take so many wedding guests along. And why the groom is seated on a horse and even given a knife: Don’t be afraid! We’ll handle it! With band and drums playing...!

Now you ask: you spoke of ideal couples; will you elaborate?

In my neighborhood there is an ideal couple that has broken all previous records of love. One day I asked another neighbor of mine— Brother, on what strength is their love so deep? He said— Strange, you don’t know? The husband is a poet, the wife is deaf.

That’s all for today.