Man Hi Pooja Man Hi Dhoop #2

Yog Pritam, life is a mystery with no answer. Life is not a question that could have an answer. All questions are childish—and so are all answers. Questions and answers are children’s games. Life is neither a question nor an answer; it is beyond both, prior to both—it simply is.

This is the difference between philosophy and religion. Philosophy lives under the illusion that life is a question whose answer can be found; religion lives in the experience that life is a mystery—you can live it, but you cannot find its answer.

“Who am I?” has no answer. Yet “Who am I?” is an ancient method of meditation—Ramana Maharshi revived it. It is a significant method. But don’t remain under the illusion that by asking, “Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?” one day the answer will arrive. No—by asking again and again, one day the question itself will dissolve. By asking again and again, one day the asking will stop. A great silence will descend. A void will surround you inside and out; neither the question will remain nor the questioner. Then what is—simply is. Tat tvam asi! That thou art! That is what I am! That is what all are! That “That” is what we have called God.

God is not a person. God is the name of the mystery of this existence. It is a way of saying that life is an ineffable mystery. A flower whose beauty you can live; a song you can hum—but whose meaning you will never know. You can experience the beauty of a flower, but if someone asks, “What is beauty?” you will fall silent. The more insistently someone asks, the more difficult it becomes. Slowly you even begin to doubt whether beauty exists at all—because when there is no answer, doubt arises. If there were an answer, doubt would subside. The more the answer eludes you, the denser the doubt, the greater the restlessness. One question breaks into a thousand, as when a mirror falls on a rock and shatters into countless pieces. Questions give birth to more questions. That is why philosophy spreads and spreads; it has no end, no shore—and no solution is ever found.

Solutions come to those who recognize this truth: How will we know life—we are life! Between the knower and the known there must be some distance. If there is distance, knowledge can occur. If there is some interval between the subject and the object, knowledge can happen. Without a gap, where will knowledge happen? The knower is the known. We are the ones who know and the ones to be known—there is not an inch of distance. With no distance, where will knowledge arise?

Therefore the first step of supreme knowing is to know that “I do not know.” And the last step of knowing is to know that “it cannot be known—it can only be lived, one can only be it.” That is why I keep telling you: relate to existence not from the head, but from the heart. The mind always asks questions; the heart does not ask—it leaps. The mind asks, “What is love?” It keeps asking, “What is love?” And the heart sets off down the little footpath of love, singing its song. The mind will go on sitting, thinking. The heart will not only begin the journey; it will complete it.

Those who remain sitting with the mind—there is no journey in their life, no movement, no flow; their very life-force is not dynamic. They are dead.

Yog Pritam, your question is significant. You ask: “How can I say who Swami Devteerth Bharati was!”

No one can. “Who was Devteerth Bharati?”—that is one matter; but even “Who is Yog Pritam?”—you cannot say. If nothing can be said even about oneself, what can be said about another?

There is that which is beyond saying. And in that lies life’s dignity and glory. There is that which is beyond words. There is that which cannot be translated—into language. It is pure feeling and remains feeling. It is fragrance; close your fist upon it and you will miss. Let it fill your nostrils. Sway with it—sway, intoxicated.

Buddhahood is such an event. It is the greatest flower in this world—the flower of consciousness, the thousand-petaled lotus. The fragrance rising from it cannot be held in your fists, nor locked in vaults. These are not treasures that can be stored away. Whatever can be locked in a vault isn’t treasure at all—just shards. Only what cannot be locked up is real treasure.

Can you lock the fresh air of morning in a safe? Can you lock the newborn rays of the sun? The songs of birds? The fragrance of flowers? The light of stars? From this great festival existence is celebrating, what can you lock away? Nothing. Only shards!

Words are like vaults; only the trivial can fit in them. The meaningless alone puts on the pretense of meaning in words. Words and the meaningful are worlds apart. Words have never reached the meaningful, nor has the meaningful ever arrived in words. This has never happened, is not happening, and will not happen—because experience happens in the heart, and words are the property of the mind. Whoever tries to bring that experience into words fails.

Even carrying words from one language to another becomes difficult. The more full of feeling, sensitivity, poetry and beauty the words are, the harder it is to take them from one language to another. Prose can be translated; poetry cannot. A thousand translations of Omar Khayyam’s Rubaiyat have been made, yet something always slips. The translation survives; the cage remains in the hand—the bird has flown.

Tagore’s Gitanjali has been translated, but the original is lost. And it is not only that the original is lost in foreign tongues; it is lost even in Indian tongues. From Bengali into Hindi—sister languages, both daughters of Sanskrit, so close—and still, as soon as you translate, something dies.

If it cannot be translated from language to language, this “translation” is impossible: from feeling into language. It is bringing the void into words. Only fools think they have succeeded—only fools. The wise know that what needed to be said couldn’t be said; it remains unsaid. Fools think they have said it; in truth they have nothing to say.

A poet loved a woman—very beautiful, well-educated, cultured. At last the poet proposed. She accepted, but said, “Let me make one request first—so that later you don’t feel regret or pain. I cannot cook.”

The poet said, “Don’t worry. What do we have to cook anyway! I won’t repent—you might, but I won’t. Food and all that—we hardly have anything. What’s to fear?”

Those who have nothing become very able at saying things! When you have nothing, what can obstruct speaking? Yes, when you have something, the trouble begins. Fools say so much in this world; the wise miss—they cannot say it.

I have heard: Sardar Hajara Singh went to London for the first time. He had learned English only up to matric, but he spoke with great flourish. The less you’ve studied, the more boldly you can speak—what is there to fear! One evening he reached a hotel known for serving fruits from every country. When he heard this, he felt like eating aloo-bukhara (plums). He called the waiter and said, “I want potato-feevra.” He “translated” aloo-bukhara!

Having made such a fine translation, Hajara Singh sat there pleased, while the poor waiter kept sweating, searching lists of Indian fruits. Finally he went to the manager. When the manager failed to find the name, he dialed the Indian embassy. Sardar Vichittar Singh picked up the phone. The manager explained everything.

Vichittar Singh called Hajara Singh to the phone and asked, “Tuhada naam?” (What is your name?)
“Thouzanda Singh,” Hajara Singh replied.
“Kithon aae ho?” (Where have you come from?)
“Cleverpur—yaani Hoshiarpur,” he clarified.

Now Vichittar Singh understood the whole matter—and what this “potato-feevra” was. He told the manager, “Sardarji wants aloo-bukhara—plums!”

Foolishness succeeds; the wise always fail at saying it. To speak the speakable is easy; to speak the truly worthy is hard. That “something” is so inner that, in bringing it out, it slips from the hands; brought out, it becomes something else. The treasure is within and forever available. Dive.

Yog Pritam, don’t worry about who Swami Devteerth was. Worry about who I am. The day you know yourself, you will know all the buddhas. The day you know yourself, you will know all that is to be known. Though let me repeat: this “knowing” is not like knowing. It is a unique knowing, for in it the knower and the known are one; it cannot be split in two—it is impossible to divide it.

You are a poet, Yog Pritam; you will understand. You say well: “I had seen him like a blossoming flower.”

Ordinarily, all have come to blossom—but they remain buds. And no one else is responsible but you. It is misfortune if the flower cannot become a flower, if the bud remains a bud. It is misfortune if the bud does not open to pour out its fragrance. Every person is born with a song. Until it is sung, there is no fulfillment. Every person comes with a dance. Until that dance rings through your ankle-bells, something feels missing.

All of you feel a sense of lack. Even if you have everything, some lack nags. Wealth, position, prestige—and yet something nameless, unknown; some corner inside remains empty, unfilled, and that emptiness pricks. Fools don’t notice it. To see it also requires a little intelligence, a little sensitivity. Fools never look within; they go on running outside. They don’t look at the ground. Their eyes are hooked far away—in desires, in cravings, in the stars.

Mulla Nasruddin was walking along the road on a starry night, humming a film tune, gazing at the stars. Behind him, a car kept honking, but he neither heard nor moved aside. He was not “there” to hear—he had wandered far off, lost among the stars. Finally the driver stopped, got out and said, “Old man! If you don’t look where you are going, you’ll end up where you are looking. How long do you expect me to keep honking!”

People are hooked far away; they don’t see there is an emptiness within. When do they ever look in? Where is the time! They count their money, climb ladders. Elections follow elections. A thousand calculations to arrange. Life’s chessboards are spread out; they move wooden elephants and horses. For wooden elephants and horses, they draw real swords.

Leave such fools aside. Those with even a little awareness, a little wakefulness—even a single ray—feel this prick again and again. While they are busy, it’s okay; but the moment work ends, the thought returns: there is incompletion in life. Something was to happen, which I have not become. Some capacity I brought is still unfulfilled. When will I become a flower from a bud? May this treasure within not lie buried; when will I be able to pour it out? Only by pouring will you know. But pour that which you have dug within.

People think they have nothing; hence they beg from others. All here are beggars. There are poor beggars and rich beggars. Beggars are beggars, and emperors are beggars too. This is a congregation of beggars. And they gather trash—whatever will be left behind here. What is left behind here is trash. Whatever you cannot take with you is trash.

Jesus has a famous saying: What you give away is saved, and what you do not give will be lost.

But people gather; they do not give. To give is the way of a master, an emperor. Gathering is the habit of a beggar.

Mulla Nasruddin made some paintings and brought them to show me. All hodge-podge—no rhyme or reason; just slapped colors anyhow with a brush! I asked, “Nasruddin, what is this?” He said, “You don’t understand—this is modern art. I’ve seen Picasso and Dali; inspired by them. I have surpassed them!”

Never learned to draw a straight line, and has produced works of modern art! I asked jokingly, “What will you do now?”

He said, “If I wish, they’ll sell for a lakh, two lakhs each!”

I said, “I don’t see anyone in India so ‘understanding’ of modern art who will give you a lakh or two for these.”

Nasruddin said, “Why worry—then the family treasure will remain in the family!”

There is no treasure, and “the family treasure will remain in the family!”

You say, “I had seen him like a blossoming flower.”

Be the same yourself! When you see a blossomed flower, what more remains to be done? The greatest praise of the flower is that you blossom too. There is no greater tribute.

You say:
“Swaying with the breeze of existence.”

Then sway—you too, and blossom.

You say:
“Spilling the fragrance of bliss,
forever blending the nectar of love in all hearts.”

Do that as well. This should be the way of a sannyasin. Dissolve as much love into life as you can. We have only a few days; today we are, tomorrow we will not be. Sweeten existence as much as you can. Fill it with as much melody as you can. You can’t take anything from here; so don’t worry about taking or accumulating. Yes, you can give! And if you give, a paradox: by giving, you become capable of taking. Only what you give will you be able to take along.

This was always his way. Lately he had bloomed greatly, come to full radiance. But I remember from my childhood—when he had few means, even then he delighted in giving. My oldest memories of him—very old—are of sharing. He was not a wealthy man. He rose from great poverty. But in giving, none could match him. Not a day passed without his gathering guests. The whole town awaited him. Whoever passed by knew he would be invited to eat. Every month, fortnight, some feast—gathering all the friends. Even if he had to borrow—still, giving had to happen. He delighted in giving.

Once he suffered a heavy loss. I asked, “Will you be able to bear it?” He said, “I cannot suffer loss, because my father left me only seven hundred rupees. As long as I have that seven hundred, I have no fear. The rest, give-and-take—no problem. If I meet my father—he is gone—I’ll tell him: I have saved exactly what you gave, not a rupee less. So as long as the seven hundred are there, I have no worry. If the rest goes, let it go—came and went! They were not mine; there was no question of holding them.”

And he said, “One thing is certain: the seven hundred will not go. Those will remain.” Even when loss was great, I thought perhaps now the feasts would stop—calling people, feeding kheer, ordering sweets. But it did not stop. I said, “This time, tighten your hand a little.” He said, “Should I incur a big loss for the sake of small losses? These are small losses—they happen. But the process of sharing must go on. Whatever there is, we will keep giving.”

And in these last ten years a great refinement came—he was going deeper and deeper into meditation.

From the beginning he loved certain things. My first memory is that he would wake me at three in the morning. When I was very small—three in the morning is to sleep; eyes full of sleep, getting up impossible; whoever woke me seemed an enemy—he would wake me at three and take me walking. That was his first gift to me—brahmamuhurta. At first it was very difficult. I would be dragged along, stupefied with sleep. But slowly a relation with the beauty of dawn was born. It became clear that those morning hours are not to be lost. In those hours God is closest to the earth as perhaps never again. When the whole of nature wakes—plants, birds, animals, the sun—this is the hour of awakening. Not to miss that hour is right. In that flood of awakening, your inner awakening can happen.

I cannot forget his gift, though it was hard. Whatever is more beautiful, more auspicious, more true in life is bitter at first; sweetness comes later. And whatever is untrue, inauspicious, un-beautiful, is sweet on the surface, and poison in the end. Remember this maxim. Otherwise you will be misled by the initial sweetness. Once you gulp that sweetness, the poison begins slowly to destroy your body, mind, life-breath. If truth is bitter, don’t be afraid—soon it will become sweet.

When I was small I lived long with my maternal grandparents. There were thirty-two miles between my father’s place and my maternal home. No train, no bus, no taxi; in those days nothing—no road even. He would cycle those thirty-two miles to see me. In the rains it was very difficult—half the way he had to carry the cycle on his shoulder. Where there was mud, cycling was impossible; where there was no mud, he rode; where there was mud, he had to hoist the bicycle and carry it. Yet he came cycling to meet me.

I said, “Don’t take so much trouble.” But it was his inner feeling. Love was his very nature; for it he could bear anything. He delighted in love. For love he was ready to pay any price. Ripening through that love, this buddhahood became possible. Such a thing doesn’t happen in a day. Slowly, gradually, preparation happens within you—the seed cracks, the sprout emerges, leaves come, flowers, then fruit. Buddhahood is the fruit.

Learn something from the way you found him.

“He had become absorbed in the divine,
or that same form of light expressed itself in him.”

It is the same thing—whether you say, the drop fell into the ocean, or the ocean fell into the drop.

Kabir says:
Searching and searching, dear friend, Kabir was lost.
The drop merged into the ocean—what is there to behold?

And then he says:
Searching and searching, dear friend, Kabir was lost.
The ocean merged into the drop—what is there to behold?

Whether the drop merges into the ocean or the ocean into the drop—two ways of saying the same thing. Whether you dissolve into the divine, or allow the divine to dissolve into you—it is one thing. But don’t go on thinking—take the step.

“Buddhahood rushed into simplicity and was absorbed.
It felt as though God himself had become the devotee.”

He was certainly a simple man. I lived with him almost half a century. Only once did he slap me. It is hard to find such a father. Only once—a light smack. Never again did he hit me, because he understood—and he felt very repentant, asked my forgiveness. What father asks his child to forgive him! He understood I was not one of those horses that need to be beaten; the shadow of the whip is enough.

As a boy I liked to keep long hair—so long that my father often faced trouble, because his customers would ask, “Is it a boy or a girl?” It annoyed him to keep saying, “Boy.” I didn’t mind—what’s wrong with being a girl? If a customer said to me, “Miss, please bring some water,” I would bring it. But it pained him to say, “Not a girl, my son.” People would say, “But such long hair!” One day he said, “Cut this hair—it’s a nuisance all day—or stop coming to the shop.”

Home and shop were one; where could I go? On holidays it was worst. He said, “From morning till evening I’m explaining this. Or I should do my work? People ask why such long hair—why don’t you cut it? So you cut it.” I said, “I won’t.” He slapped me. That day a decision was made between us. I went and had my head shaved completely. When I returned, clean-shaven, not even a tuft, he said, “What have you done?” I said, “I’ve uprooted the issue; I will never grow hair again.” He said, “But we shave the head when the father dies.” I said, “When you die, I won’t shave.” The matter ended.

So you see, he died and I did not shave. A promise had to be kept. He realized he must be thoughtful with me. Such a slap is not easy!

Now people began to ask him, “What happened?” In a small village, one shaves only when one’s father dies. They said, “You are alive—what happened to your son?” I sat in the shop as before. He said, “I beg you—his long hair was better; at least I was alive. Now they ask if I have died—why has the boy shaved?”

But that day it was settled between us: with me, one cannot behave like with ordinary children. Even to scold me, he would have to think. You cannot say to me, “Do this, do that.” If he asked me for something later, he would say, “It is my suggestion—do it if you can; if not, don’t. I am not ordering.” He never ordered me again.

The relationship that grew between us was no longer the ordinary father-son relationship. That ended very early—the bodily relation. The relation of the soul kept blossoming.

He was very simple. People would say, “So many have taken sannyas—my mother also took sannyas—why don’t you?” He would say, “I am waiting. The day it arises spontaneously, that moment I will take.” One morning at six, Laxmi came running. He was staying here, in Laxmi’s room, the one at the back. At six she ran in and said, “He is saying—sannyas, this very moment, now!” He used to sit in meditation from three every morning. That day the inner impulse arose. At six he took sannyas. I tried hard to stop him from touching my feet: “Whatever else I may be, I am still your son.” He said, “Don’t bring that up. Once I have taken sannyas, I am a disciple. The talk of father and son is finished.”

From that day he did not let me touch his feet; he touched mine. Rare is the father who has such courage—such simplicity, such naturalness! Thereafter he lived by asking me in even small matters—“Shall I do this or not?” And whatever I said, he did—nothing otherwise. Because of this, an extraordinary event could happen; otherwise it takes lives upon lives. If I told him, “Meditate—do it like this,” he never asked again. He simply did it. He never asked, “Nothing has happened yet—when will it? Shall I go on all my life like this?” For ten years he meditated, but not once did he say, “Why hasn’t something happened yet?” Such was his trust and faith. Not once did he say, “There is some difficulty—another method? Some modification?” This is called letting go—surrender. Therefore a great event could take place.

I was anxious that he might depart before attaining buddhahood. For if one like him were to leave without attaining, my hope for you all would grow very thin. But he became a lamp of hope for all of you.

You asked, Yog Pritam:
“It felt as though God himself had become the devotee—
he was a dance-song immersed in devotion.”

For him, kirtan was not a path—only an expression. What he received in meditation, he would lavish in kirtan. He did not attain Buddhahood through kirtan. He attained Buddhahood through meditation alone. But how to share what is found in meditation? Meditation is mute; it cannot speak. Devotion can speak, can sway. Therefore, even for the knower, even for the meditator, when the time comes to express, there remains no other means than devotion. Such is the dignity of bhakti. Meditation is like a desert. Bhakti is a garden. There, flowers bloom profusely, the cuckoo coos, and the pied cuckoo calls, “Pi-kahan, pi-kahan.”

His path was meditation; he attained only through meditation. But as the depth of meditation grew, so did his dilemma: all that was gathering within—what to do with it, what not to do? He asked me, “What should I do? So much is accumulating inside; how do I share it?”

So I told him to do kirtan. He did not even raise the question that kirtan and meditation are two different paths. Faith does not question. He did not ask, “First you said meditation, now kirtan?” He never asked me. I said, “Now pour it out in kirtan,” and he began kirtan. Kirtan was his expression. What he was receiving in meditation—the flowers blooming in meditation—their fragrance was rising in kirtan.

You are right:
“He was a dancing song immersed in devotion,
or a bliss-filled, overflowing, beautiful silence.”

His songs were being born from his silence. Silence was thickening within; songs were manifesting without. When a tree flowers, you see blossoms above, while its roots have gone deep into the earth below. Likewise, go deep into meditation and many flowers will bloom in your life—of many colors, of different forms, of different fragrances!

“They have added so much to the great celebration—
How can I say who Swami Devateerth Bharati was!”

You will not be able to say; I cannot say either; no one can say. There is no way to say it. He was faith! He was trust! He was meditation! He was devotion! And the sum of all these is what we call God.

Jaya, good that it happened. It is not that good fortune is hidden in misfortune; there is no misfortune anywhere—there is only good fortune. The one who ran away before the marriage would have run afterward as well—he is a runner. If he ran away before the wedding, how long would he have stayed afterward? And even if he stayed, what meaning would such staying have?

Good that it happened—perfectly good. Celebrate. Invite him also to the celebration, because without him this good fortune could not have come to Hina. Do not take even a trace of sorrow. There is nothing to be sad about. In this world there are no “sad events” at all—we go on picking up sadness; that is another matter. Whatever happens here is joy. One only needs eyes to see—eyes a little sharp.

And Jaya, you have the eyes. And I have seen Hina too—she has a great potential. Perhaps the one obstacle that could have stood in the way of sannyas has been removed. Perhaps this has become an opportunity for sannyas. Now Hina should not worry about what will happen to her father. When your father had had the cards printed and distributed, made all the arrangements, booked the Taj Mahal Hotel, the boy ran away—and nothing happened. Then what will Hina’s sannyas do? Here nothing ever really happens; we needlessly fret: father might be sad, father might be anxious! This is the right occasion—on such an occasion even the father will not be able to say much. What more beautiful opportunity could there be? Hina’s hour for sannyas has come. For some people that hour comes only after suffering the long tortures of marriage. She is fortunate—hers has come without the suffering. And the one who ran away with another girl—what trust was there in his love? What meaning was there?

Chandulal’s last hour was near. His friend Mr. Dhabbu had come to bid him a final farewell. Who knows when his childhood companion would leave forever. Seeing Dhabbu, Chandulal said, Brother Dhabbu, you’ve come at just the right time—please write a letter to my wife, Gulabo. Write: Your Chandulal, even in these final moments of death, has not forgotten the love you gave. The lovely days we spent together, those sweet memories—I can never forget them. Our love is immortal and will remain immortal. Yours, Chandulal. And send a copy of this same letter to Sheela, Neela, Kamla, Vimla, and Asha as well.

Good for you, Hina—otherwise who knows how many Sheelas, Kamlās, Vimlās and what-all tangles you would have gotten into! The young man who left you and ran away was very compassionate. Look around carefully—what do people actually get? Hina, ask Jaya what she has got from marriage—ask your mother! What has anyone got except turmoil! Look at your mother’s life. Because she is a sannyasin she is carefree amidst all the turmoil—she dances, she sings—but the turmoil is there all the same. What would you have got? What has anyone got?

Marriage is for those whose intelligence is not sharp. As a knife without an edge must be ground on stone to get an edge, an intelligence without edge has to be ground on the stone of marriage to become sharp. But there are such fools that even after being ground by marriages, no edge comes. Stones get sharpened by rubbing, but those people never do!

Mr. Dhabbu was traveling in a bus. It was packed—no place to sit. He was standing, and right in front of him stood a beautiful, attractive, delicate young woman. He had just been thrashed by his wife at home. But do people learn? Because of the crowd he kept bumping into the young woman, intentionally, and was even enjoying the contact.

Finally, when she saw he was deliberately pushing her, she flared up and said, Aren’t you ashamed to shove women like this? Are you a human being or an animal?

Dhabbu said, I am both. You are my jaan (life), and I am your var (groom)—together, jaan-var! (animal)

Fresh from a beating at home! But some people never learn. Good for you, Hina—the path of sannyas has been cleared. Don’t delay in taking sannyas, otherwise your father will go looking for another animal for you. One animal has fled; your father won’t lose heart so easily—he will find another. Understand that the hassle is over. The wedding is as good as done and the matter finished.

If you must marry, marry God. If you must be joined, be joined to That. If you must take the rounds, take them with That; if you must tie a knot, tie it with That! What will come of tying knots with the lunatics here? With these lunatics only more trouble will come.

Be happy! But don’t become too happy either, because sometimes even happiness is hard to digest.

Nasruddin married for the third time. On the first day, when he ate the food cooked by the new bride, his whole mouth—tongue, lips, cheeks, throat and even his teeth—turned bitter. Somehow he swallowed a morsel of the vegetable and thought, No matter. He took a second bite, of the lentils—and his mouth buzzed with heat; it was all chilies, not a trace of dal. His stomach began to burn, tears came into his eyes. He didn’t want to upset his new wife, so he said, Darling, the food is marvelous.

The new bride asked, Then why are there tears in your eyes?

Don’t ask, my love—he covered up—these are tears of joy.

Shall I give you some more vegetable? Or a bit more dal?

No, darling—said Nasruddin, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief—I’m a heart patient. I won’t be able to bear so much happiness at once!

Good for you, Hina. People will come to offer condolences—laugh, and offer them condolences instead: Be sad that your animal did not run away. Mine ran away—what is there to be sad about?

Surely people are coming. People are strange—they don’t miss such occasions. They will come and say, Daughter, don’t be afraid; we’ll find another groom—an even better animal! This one was nothing. They will think a great catastrophe has fallen upon you. You laugh and tell them, Do not worry about me. I probably would not have been able to get free myself...

You had a little attachment to that young man; because of that you wouldn’t have freed yourself. He himself ran away. Thank him.

Fed up with his quarrelsome wife, one day Mulla Nasruddin said, Having married you, though I am a Muslim, I have begun to feel reverence for the Hindu scriptures. In the Ramcharitmanas, Baba Tulsidas truly said: Dhol, fool, Shudra, animal, woman—these are all fit to be beaten.

I too have full faith in that couplet—said Guljaan—because out of the five, I am only the woman; the other four are you.

Hina, laugh and rejoice. Life saved and millions gained; the fool returned home! That Taj Mahal and the Taj Mahal Hotel glitz, the wedding party and guests, sparklers and firecrackers—you would have got lost in all that.

Why do we have to make such elaborate arrangements for marriage? Why so much noise? To cover the vulgarity of marriage. To make us forget the long chain of troubles that marriage brings. We seat the groom on a horse—a fellow who has never sat on a horse. We call him groom-king! We crown him with peacock plumes. We dress him like an emperor, load him with garlands. Sitting on the horse, puffed up, he thinks, Ah, what a life is beginning! Ask the horse—how many such fools he has ferried across already!

That is why you see in Indian films: the shehnai plays, the horse moves, the procession sets out, the bands play, the priest performs the garland exchange—and suddenly The End appears. Why does “The End” come right after the shehnai? Because what comes afterward is not fit to be told. For what happens after—may God save you!

Jaya, you yourself are not worried—I know that; but your concern for your daughter is natural. You have learned from life’s experience; you have matured. You have gained a certain ripeness. It is that very ripeness that brought you to me, that gave you entry into the world of sannyas.

And other people’s sannyas is not as difficult as Jaya’s, because Jaya’s husband is an enemy of sannyas. To be an enemy means: someday he will become a sannyasin. To be an enemy means a bond with me has been made. He thinks of me, broods over me, abuses me—well, even by way of abuse, he takes my name. That name is dangerous. If he goes on thinking, that name will take root. One day he will be a sannyasin. But he will give Jaya as much trouble as he can. Once he even threw her out of the house; for a month or fifteen days Jaya stayed in the ashram. Without giving or taking anything, he threw her out: If you are to remain a sannyasin, you cannot live in this house.

So Jaya knows suffering; and she was ready even for that. So Hina, you can understand: your mother was ready to leave her husband, ready to leave her children, whom she loves very much—ready to leave you, to whom she is very attached—but she was not ready to leave sannyas. Then what life did not give, sannyas must have given.

Good. Become a sannyasin. And when Jaya could not be defeated by your father, how will he defeat you! He may be a little upset—perhaps not; perhaps your sannyas may even become a cause for transformation in his life. Who knows what may become a catalyst! Which tiny thing will do it—no one can say. They say a single straw can make the camel kneel. A weight of tons was there and the camel did not sit; and one straw—and the camel sat. Only that straw was missing. It may be that your sannyas opens a new door in his life. Therefore, do not be afraid.

And remember, my sannyas is not against love. My sannyas is not against life. Even after sannyas, if love arises in your life, live it—there is no prohibition. It is not that, having become a sannyasin, you will never be able to live love. To become a sannyasin means: now we will live love totally, in wholeness. But do not think in the language of marriage. If, like a shadow of love, marriage happens, that’s one thing; but drop the hope that love will follow marriage. Love does not follow marriage. What has marriage to do with love? Marriage can follow love—but not the reverse. And we are bent on doing the reverse. We marry first, thinking: then love will happen. We have yoked the bullocks behind the cart! Now neither the cart will move nor the bullocks. The bullocks cannot move because the cart is in front; and how will the cart move, because the bullocks are not before it. Then a quarrel begins. The bullocks must be in front of the cart—then the cart can move.

Love is the principle. If marriage follows it, fine; even that is not essential. Love can be lived without marriage. In truth, marriage always puts some obstacles in love, because with marriage come expectations, insistence, a proprietary stance toward each other. With marriage comes politics—who is the master, who is chief? The man thinks he is special—what is there in a woman! Woman is the gateway to hell! And the man thinks he is the strong one; therefore he makes every effort to suppress the woman, to establish ownership.

In that effort to establish ownership, love dies. Love is as delicate as a flower; if you clench your fist around it, it dies.

And the woman is in no way behind the man; she has her own tricks, her subtle ways of making the man bend. The man’s ways are crude, gross, visible. The woman’s ways are subtle, not gross, not visible. And that is why, in the end, women win and men lose. It takes the woman longer to win, but she wins. She wins because, before her subtle ways, the man slowly loses; he cannot figure out what to do and what not to do.

When a man is angry, he hits the woman; when a woman is angry, she bangs her own head against the wall. Then the man repents: Why did I start this mess! Why did I give her such trouble! When a man is angry he forces the woman to cry; when a woman is angry she herself begins to cry. These are subtle modes of taking possession. Slowly this struggle destroys both. They spend their whole lives in this effort.

Life is for bigger things. Are there no other songs to sing? No other music to play? No other festivals to seek? Or are we to spend it in this squabble? A man and a woman spend life fighting. Ninety percent of their life passes in this conflict. And what is the result—what do they get in hand? Rarely you see a couple that escapes this stupidity. Very rarely.

I have stayed in thousands of homes; I have experience of thousands of families. Hardly one in a thousand appears where there is love; otherwise there is only quarrel, conflict, commotion.

Sannyas is not anti-love. Therefore, Hina, become a sannyasin. And then if love rises in your life—and love can arise only when meditation has deepened. Otherwise what you call love is nothing but sex-urge; it is only a biological compulsion. It is not your sovereignty. Is that love? It is only the gratification of lust. How can there be love? And where there is gratification of lust there will be conflict, because on the one upon whom we depend to gratify lust, we become dependent.

And in this world no one wants to be dependent on anyone. Whom we depend upon we can never forgive, because we have become slaves to the one on whom we depend. The husband takes revenge on the wife for this slavery; the wife takes revenge on the husband. Where there is lust there will be revenge; and where there is lust there will be remorse, because lust belongs to the lowest plane in life.

So when a man gets entangled in lust for a woman, it seems to him: this wicked one has dragged me down to this low plane! And when he feels remorse, he puts all the blame on the woman. That is why your sages wrote that woman is the gateway to hell.

Woman is not the gateway to hell, nor is man. No one else is the gateway to hell for you; you yourself can become the gateway to hell or the gateway to heaven.

And when a woman sees that because of her husband she has to descend into lust—and women see this more, because a woman’s lust is passive while a man’s is active. That is why a man can commit rape; a woman cannot. Her lust is passive. Since it is passive, unless the man incites and provokes her, it remains asleep. Naturally the woman feels more that it is because of this man that I have to go down into lust.

How many women have not said to me: When shall we be free of this pettiness! When will this race of the body end, because the husband is never satisfied! His demand never ends! And because of him we have to descend into this pit again and again. When will there be release?

It is more difficult for a woman, and the remorse is greater. Therefore no woman can respect her own husband. She can respect some random fellow—let some sage arrive in the village, she can respect him; some holy man, some baba—anybody she can respect—but not her husband. Yes, she says formally, The husband is God; but those are words. She knows in her heart: it is because of this husband that I am dragged down again and again. If only I were free of this husband, if only this husband’s lust would cease, I too could fly upward; my wings too could sprout!

A woman repents deeply; and if she repents she will hold the husband responsible. Hence the unknown anger flares up; twenty-four hours a day there is disturbance. And it is all unconscious. If it were conscious you would understand; but it is happening on the unconscious plane, so you cannot catch it clearly. It appears hazy; it never becomes clear what this game is, what this arithmetic is.

And when a woman wants to be saved from the husband and his lust, naturally the man’s lust being active, he becomes curious about other women. Then another calamity begins—jealousy, envy, antagonism. If the wife cooperates in the husband’s lust, it is only so that he may not become interested in some other woman.

But is this love? This is business—prostitution. It is a device to keep the client from going to some other shop. And where there is no love, how many days will the client stick around? If he sticks only because of the body, he will soon be bored. The same body again and again, the same manner, the same color, the same form—who does not get bored! Eat the same food every day—you will be fed up; wear the same clothes—you will be harassed. You need some change. Watch the same movie every day—you will be bored. Even if it is free, you will be frightened to go: the same movie every day; the same woman every day!

A man’s lust being active, he gets bored quickly; he starts looking here and there. And when he looks, the wife burns with jealousy, and she will take revenge—she will trouble him in a thousand ways. And the more she burns with jealousy and torments him, the more she pushes him into the arms of another woman. It is a great net of trouble. And behind all this net there is one fact: our love is not true love. True love can arise only when love is born from meditation.

I want first to teach meditation; then, following meditation, love should come. It comes—certainly it comes. And then there comes a love of another realm, another world—a love with the fragrance of the divine. In that love there is no pain, no sting, no thorns, no poison. In that love there is no politics, no jealousy, no envy. In that love there is no remorse, no claim and proprietorship over the other.

Hina, become a sannyasin! Learn meditation, and then let love arise.

Jayanand, you do understand, and you do hear; you just want to avoid doing. And the easiest trick to avoid doing is: “If I don’t understand, how can I act? Forget understanding—if I can’t even hear, how can I act?”

What I’m saying is plain and simple. I’m not using difficult words—just everyday speech. This isn’t a sermon; it’s a conversation, like two friends chatting. My way of speaking isn’t scholastic; it’s in the people’s language. I don’t even know much scripture. I’m speaking your tongue; if you can’t understand this, what will you understand?

You do understand—you don’t want to. You do hear—but you don’t want to hear, because hearing feels dangerous. If you hear, escaping will be difficult. This isn’t about your ears being deaf; it’s your tactic, your cleverness, your defense, your security.

Ask instead: Why is it that I don’t want to hear you? You ask, “Why don’t I hear?” That I will not accept. You do hear me—clearly. But to hear me takes courage, because if you hear, you will understand. What I say is straightforward—if you listen, you will understand. And if you understand, you will have to act.

I am saying, “Here is the door,” and you have always tried to get out through the wall. You even hear me shouting, “Here is the door,” but you’ve begun to enjoy trying to pass through the wall—you’ve got a taste for it. Banging your head against the wall has become your style of living. How can you hear “Here is the door!” when you’re determined to keep going through the wall? And then you have gilded the wall with gold, mistaking it for a door; you’ve studded it with diamonds and jewels; hung festoons on it; written “Welcome” on it. You’ve labored all your life decorating the wall—now if you suddenly hear me say, “That’s a wall; the door is here,” what happens to your lifetime’s effort? All wasted!

You don’t have that much courage, Jayanand. So you do hear—certainly you do. I won’t agree that you don’t. These are things that even the deaf can hear; these are things that even the blind can see. But your vested interests are obstructing.

Chandulal’s father, Lala Basesar Nath, was admitted to Jaslok Hospital. He needed a kidney operation. Chandulal phoned his childhood buddy, Dhabbu, in Poona. After the greetings, he said, “Friend Dhabbu, I need a thousand rupees for my father’s operation. It would be good if you could send it.”

Dhabbu: “What are you saying, Chandu? Speak louder—I can’t hear a thing.”

Chandulal: “I need a thousand rupees for my father’s operation. If possible, please send it.”

Dhabbu: “I don’t know, friend—what are you saying? I can’t make any sense of it. What on earth are you saying?”

The telephone operator, who had been listening, said to Dhabbu-ji, “What don’t you understand? Your friend Chandulal is saying, for his father’s operation please arrange a thousand rupees. Can’t you hear?”

Dhabbu-ji replied, “If you can hear it, why don’t you send it!”

You don’t want to hear—because if you hear, you’ll have to send that thousand rupees! Just now I told Hina something—she must have heard it all. Now if she wants to avoid sannyas, she’ll decide, “I didn’t hear a thing. What are you saying? I don’t understand!” Even if you hear, you then say you don’t understand.

These are not tangled words—they are clear and untangled.

You come here for other reasons. Someone comes and says, “I have no son.” How will my words reach him? He’s sitting there waiting for a chance to bring up his real issue. Laxmi is troubled—every day she has to turn many people away: someone comes with an illness; someone says there’s no son; someone says there’s no job. People even ask, “If I take sannyas, will I get a son?”

That’s a good one! People used to take sannyas because they had sons; but a son because of sannyas! You’re trying to row the river in the boat!

Someone says, “I don’t get a job—if I take sannyas, will I get one?”

It’s because the job doesn’t come that people take sannyas. The business collapses, the job doesn’t happen, the wife dies, there’s no son—and then people say, “Well, let’s take sannyas.” This is how sannyas has been taken till now.

We have to explain and send them back. They get very upset—“We have come to take sannyas; why are you not giving it to us?” But their reasons are wrong.

You come to hear one thing, I am saying something else. You come hoping I will make your worldly dream a little sweeter; that I will spread a sugar coating over your poisoned life. And I am stripping all coatings off. If I had my way I would flay your skin to show you the skeleton within! You come wanting life to be a little more successful.

People standing for elections come here for blessings. Now, someone who has come for electoral blessings—how will he hear my words? He might hear, but how will he understand? And if he understands, how will he run for office? He’ll sit there with his fingers in his ears, looking around for something that serves his purpose. Or some people spread the rumor that just sitting here brings benefit.

Recently, in several newspapers, a gentleman started writing letters. First it appeared in one—I thought, let it be. Then the same letter came out in a second, a third. He says he was ill, was going to be admitted to Jahangir Nursing Home. I had gone there to see Daddaji. As I came out, he saluted me; I blessed him; his illness vanished; he didn’t get admitted at Jahangir after all—no need remained, the illness was gone! The disease that hadn’t left for years left with a blessing. He canceled his room and went home, and now he’s perfectly fine. Now he’s publishing these reports. Surely many people will start coming—hoping to be spared from Jahangir Hospital. Will they hear my words? Will they understand?

It could be that it happened to him. If something like that did happen, it proves only one thing: his illness must have been false. That poor fellow should think: if my blessing could heal, wouldn’t I heal my own father? He doesn’t even see that my father was confined in Jahangir Hospital; I went to see him—if I could heal, wouldn’t I heal him? And not only could I not heal him—he left the body, and I couldn’t stop it! He doesn’t even see that. But his illness got cured!

The illness must have been false, imaginary, mental. Seventy out of a hundred illnesses are mental. And mental illnesses do get cured—faith is enough, just faith. He must have been a devout type, tired of doctors; who knows how many years the illness had tormented him. With great reverence he must have folded his hands.

And I even suspect he folded his hands to someone else, because the time he mentions—8:30 at night—I wasn’t at Jahangir Hospital then. I had gone at 3:30 in the afternoon. At 8:30, Swabhav was there, and very likely he mistook Swabhav for me. Now Swabhav is Swabhav—he must have given a blessing. What does it cost to give a blessing! If someone joins their hands, you might as well bless them. If it benefits someone, what do you lose? And what did Swabhav lose? The man benefited!

But if you meet that gentleman somewhere, don’t tell him what I’ve said—otherwise the illness might return. If he becomes certain it was Swabhav—“Oh, that was a mistake!”—the illness will instantly come back, because the illness is of the mind, a thought that troubles him.

Something similar happened in Jabalpur. One night a young man came and sat with me around ten o’clock. I told him, “Brother, you can sit at most till eleven; I go to sleep at eleven.” He said, “I won’t move all night until you give me a glass of water with your own hands.” I asked, “But why?” He said, “I have chronic stomach pain and I’ve given up on all doctors. Big and small doctors have given up on me. Now when I go to a doctor, he says, ‘Brother, go to someone else—your illness won’t be cured by me.’ A new doctor came to the village; I’ve been in his care for two months—he’s tired of me too. He sent me to you: ‘Brother, only a realized fakir can cure you.’ So I won’t budge—you’ll have to give me a glass of water.”

I said, “I don’t do that business—it’s dangerous. Not dangerous if your illness isn’t cured; but if it is cured, then I’m in trouble. Who will cure my illness then? Will you take the contract? If the villagers start coming, I’ll be in a mess. So I’m not giving you the water.”

Eleven struck—he stuck to his insistence; I stuck to mine. Twelve struck. The lady of the house where I was a guest came and said, “Now give him a glass of water. How long will this go on? Must we stay up all night? And he isn’t going to move.”

And the more I refused, the stronger his faith became. He said, “Why do you refuse so much? If you have a fee, I’ll pay it.”

I said, “I have no fee.”

“Then what do you lose by giving a glass of water?”

The hostess brought a glass of water anyway. She had me touch it and handed it to him. He gulped it down, and immediately he became a different man. “Hey! Where’s my pain?” His stomach had been hurting constantly. He looked here and there, felt his belly, then fell full-length at my feet.

I thought, “The trouble has begun.” I told him, “Swear you won’t tell anyone.”

He said, “That I cannot swear. While you are here, thousands are suffering! Even my mother has this trouble.” He quickly took a bottle from his bag: “Please fill this bottle with water. I won’t bother you—I’ll distribute it myself.”

I said, “That sounds right—you distribute it; don’t send anyone here.” I filled his bottle. Every seventh day he came and had it refilled. Many people got well from that bottle’s water! People are something—astonishing! It’s just such people who gather around so-called saints and sadhus. Their illnesses are false; they require false cures, false remedies.

Now, if you have come here for that, my words will seem from another world. You won’t hear. Even if you hear, you won’t understand. Even if you understand, you will never do.

The miserly Chandulal—who could outdo even Marwaris in stinginess—came distressed to Matkanath Brahmachari and said, “Please help me. For the last two weeks I keep having the same dream: hundred-rupee notes are raining from the sky, with some tens and fives mixed in. But the wind blows so hard that all the money is blown away—they can’t reach the ground. I’m utterly tormented by this dream. The same idiotic dream every day. Everything has a limit! I’m fed up—please solve my problem!”

Brahmachari Matkanath stroked his potbelly and said, “Have patience, brother Chandulal. This is no great problem. I’ve ended all sorts of ludicrous and terrifying nightmares. For such ailments there is one sovereign remedy—Hanuman Chalisa. As soon as the dream starts, hail Hanumanji and recite the Chalisa. Then watch the miraculous power of Bajrangbali! In a moment the rain of notes will stop.”

“What did you say?” cried Chandulal in anger. “Are you crazy? Don’t stop the money from raining—stop the gale!”

People’s purposes are all different. Do you truly want to change your life? Do you truly want to change yourself?

No. People come wanting everyone else to change; the whole world should change. “Let me remain as I am; let the world change to suit me. Let me remain as I am; let the world adjust to me, accommodate me.” Then you won’t hear me. The world will not become as you like; it cannot. You will have to awaken.

There are things to which you must become aligned. There are things that are adverse and will remain adverse—you must accept their adversity. And favorable and unfavorable—both are small matters. Beyond both lies another realm—that is what I’m pointing to. You must learn to rise beyond both favor and disfavor; you must transcend both.

That transcendence is meditation. That state beyond duality—where one rises above pleasure and pain, above illness and health, above body and mind—that state beyond duality is my message. Call it meditation—the inner aspect is meditation; the outer expression is sannyas. Meditation is its soul; sannyas is its body.

The words are straightforward, Jayanand; it is your purposes that are muddled, hence the obstacle. Listen to me after dropping your purposes. Listen as one listens to birds at dawn. Listen as one listens to the melody of a flute—without purpose, without condition. Set aside your preconceptions and biases. Don’t come here to ask for anything. I have only God to give—nothing else. If you have come to receive only God, then you will hear me, you will understand me, and you will not, by mistake, ask, “Now what should I do?” For the one who has understood, who has received vision—that very vision will show what is right to do.

That is all for today.