Mare He Jogi Maro #14

Ananddas, without satsang there is no worship. Without a true master, no temple door will open.

You may have worshiped much; it remained mere ritual. You must have learned worship from pundits—and pundits are those who themselves know nothing of worship. You must have learned worship from scriptures—scriptures have fixed words, but not truth. You have been carrying a corpse; there has been no contact with a living presence.

Meet Krishna and you will be able to dance; meet Buddha and you will be able to descend into meditation—there is no other way. But people are afraid of Buddha, frightened of Krishna. They read Krishna’s Gita; they worship Buddha’s statue. There is no life in a statue. The statue is lifeless; in worshiping it you too become lifeless. Live with stones and you will become stone. Choose your company with care.

And those words you kept repeating in the name of worship—did they carry the resonance of your own life-breath? Was it your own life that spoke?

How can clasped hands be true toward a God you have not known, not seen, not recognized? Those hands were false; those hands were hypocrisy. Hence your worship went in vain. Worship never goes in vain; only lifeless worship goes in vain.

In which temples did you worship? Which holy places did you visit? Was anyone enthroned in those temples? Those temples are empty.

People go to temples only after they have fallen empty. So long as a lamp burns in a temple, people keep their distance. They fear the flame—it may seize them. Only moths—intoxicated, crazy, mad—who can throw themselves away, go near the lamp. Cowards linger outside while the lamp burns. The moment the lamp goes out, cowards enter the temples. Then they ring the bells loudly, perform the aarti. Now there is no fear; there is no longer any reason to be afraid.

When a river is in spate, in flood, you do not come near; when it dries and only sand remains, then you launch your boat—and when it won’t move forward you get upset and blame the boat. Had you sought the company of a river in flood, worship would have happened, prayer would have happened. Had you gone to a temple that is full—where Muhammad is still alive, where the Quran is still being born, where Gorakh’s word is still ablaze, where Gorakh’s alakh is still awake—had you gone to such a place.

What use is lighting a lamp in an empty temple?
When the temple’s sacred walls have cracked,
when sandalwood-carved thresholds have broken,
what use is hanging festoons on the doors?
What use is lighting a lamp in an empty temple?

When there is no one left to savor feelings,
no one left to listen to songs,
what is the point of joining the broken strings of the veena?
What use is lighting a lamp in an empty temple?

Temples remain, but the temple’s grace is gone;
thrones remain, but there are no deities upon them;
what use is offering flowers on an empty seat?
What use is lighting a lamp in an empty temple?

You have offered flowers on empty seats. You surely went to temples, but you went late.

Whoever wants to attain truth must seek the company of a living ray. That company is called satsang. Without satsang everything is futile.

You ask: I have been worshiping for years.
You must have been doing it for lifetimes—you just don’t remember. You remember only these years, this life. For lifetimes you have been doing it, yet all became false; all recitation went to waste; all time was squandered. Why? Because your worship was not worship. There were words on your lips, but in your life-breath there was no support for those words. You worshiped out of belief, not out of trust. Born in a Hindu home you learned Hindu rites; born in a Muslim home you learned Muslim rituals. All that was given to you by others; it was not your own seeking. And what you have not searched for yourself never becomes truly true. Truth comes only through the travail of your own search.

Consider: if a woman adopts a child, there is only an appearance—she will never become a mother. She has missed the essential process of becoming a mother. She had to fall in love; in some deep moment of love conception had to happen; then nine months of bearing the burden; then to endure the labor of birth. That was tapas, an inner austerity. Through love, through pain, through the birth pangs of the child, motherhood is born. You chose a shortcut. You borrowed a child. The child will say “mother,” but do not be deceived—no motherhood will be born within you. It will remain a formality.

Your worship is like that. It did not come from your own womb; it is borrowed, stale, adopted. Hence the failure.

Now you say: But nothing has come into my hands.
How could it? And another thing: one who truly worships is not concerned at all with whether anything comes into his hands. That concern belongs only to the one who is worshiping wrongly. One who has learned worship has already received everything—in the worship itself. The fruit of worship is not beyond worship; it is within worship. The fruit of love is not beyond love; it is in love. Love and worship are not means to some other end; they are ends unto themselves.

You loved someone—then do you say, “I loved so much; nothing came into my hands”? In love the wealth is attained—what more fruit is needed? The one who loved, received—received in love itself. Love is not a marketplace, that you did a deal and profit came afterward. Love’s fruit is hidden within itself. Love is its own fruit.

Your worship has been loveless; otherwise you would never think in terms of “nothing came into my hands.” When worship happens—singing, dancing, ecstasy—everything is received; the sky pours down.

The desire for fruit is born out of greed, and worship cannot be born out of greed. Therefore the fruit-seeker can never worship, never meditate. The fruit-seeker keeps missing; his very hankering is the obstacle. He is always asking, “What will I get from this?” In life there are things such that, if you ask what the profit will be, you have already missed. A rose blooms—so beautiful; morning’s fresh dewdrops sparkle on it in the sun—and you begin to ask, “Yes, it’s beautiful, but what’s the benefit of beauty?” Then you have missed; you have been deprived of poetry. The poetry that was raining invisibly around that rose, the fairies descending upon its petals from an unseen realm—you became blind to them. You asked, “What’s the profit?” The moon rose, very beautiful, and you asked, “What’s the benefit?” You never leave the shop; you don’t leave the shop even in the temple!

You ask: Nothing at all has come into my hands.
This only shows you have not known worship at all; how then could anything come to your hands? If worship happens, all happens. Devotees have received so much in devotion that they did not even ask for paradise. They said, “Keep your Vaikuntha. Your worship, your adoration is enough for us. Let us go on singing your songs—this is sufficient; this is our heaven.”

You say: I have done pilgrimages, fasts, journeys—but to no effect.
This hankering after fruit does not leave you.

Will I go on living purposelessly like this, and die purposelessly?
If this craving for fruit remains, you will live purposelessly and die purposelessly. You have lived many times; you have died many times. This is no new habit of yours; it is your old tradition—ancient, age upon age. This is your past.

But even now, something can happen. The story can change. What is ruined can be made whole.

If a string snaps again and again,
the lute needs a new string!

What we kept with such care,
what we cherished with such love,
its colors faded at one stroke,
its flowers scattered at one stroke.
The garden stood silent, watching time,
but the cuckoo cried out:
If one spring departs in a sulk,
the garden needs a new spring!
If a string snaps again and again,
the lute needs a new string!

The crown of fire kept preening itself,
the road kept gazing for the dawn;
but the lamp’s ardor came apart,
the oil of love ran out, the flame shivered.
The lamp, distressed, began to plead,
and the clay began to call:
If one store of oil runs dry,
a new stream of love is needed!
If a string snaps again and again,
the lute needs a new string!

The bird flew, straw in its beak,
with an unshakable vow of love;
but angry storms grew restive,
scattered the straw, crushed the nest.
The bird was plundered, night closed in,
yet the dawn began to call:
If a nest is broken and torn,
the branch needs a new adornment.
If a string snaps again and again,
the lute needs a new string!

The life-breath lingered in the realm of dreams,
the eyes remained given to sleep;
then suddenly the heart throbbed,
trembling, moist eyelids opened.
Neither sleep remained nor dream remained,
yet the hot stream of tears said:
If a dream keeps breaking,
the eyes need a new intoxication.
If a string snaps again and again,
the lute needs a new string!

I forever caressed you,
kept you in my breath, adorned you;
but one day the bearers arrived,
lifted the palanquin and carried you away.
Every oath turned into burning embers,
life became an unbearable burden;
as the heart began to lay the pyre,
the stars of the sky began to call:
If a friend leaves your side,
love needs a new calling!
If a string snaps again and again,
the lute needs a new string.

Learn a new worship, learn a new adoration; give the drum a new beat. This string has snapped—set a new one. The fault was not in worship, the fault was yours. The fault was not in the courtyard—you did not know how to dance, and you thought the courtyard was crooked. Everything can still be set right; everything can still be well. Nothing is ever irreparably spoiled. Whenever you return home, know that dawn has come—sooner or later. Now drop the old frameworks of worship.

Here, this is exactly what we are doing, Ananddas. We are not creating a rigid structure for worship, but a wave of feeling. No fixed arrangement for worship—only a certain color; and freedom, and openness, and the space for each person to sing in his own voice, in his own way.

And I do not even say: believe in God. There is no need to believe in God. If you try to believe, how will you manage it? But the moon and stars are plenty for dancing. Why bring God in between? The greenery of trees is plenty for dancing. The sunlight descending from the sky is plenty. Don’t bring God in at all. Why go to temples? The creation is enough. What temple could be more beautiful than this? Learn to dance, learn to hum. One intoxication has broken—let it break; the eyes need a new intoxication. Here we are distributing sheer intoxication. This is a tavern—have a little drink!

And if you can dance under the moon and stars, if you can go mad with the surging waves of the ocean, if you can sway with the trees in the wind—you will find the divine, because the divine is hiding right here—in this greenery, in these flowers, in these stars, behind these rocks.

Jesus has said: Lift the stone, and beneath it you will find me. Split this wood, and within it you will find me.

But we are formal. We sit arranging the platter for worship, set up an idol, light incense and lamps, recite Sanskrit. All goes to waste. Even the Sanskrit does not arise from your heart; you don’t even know its meaning. If you are a Muslim you chant in Arabic—you don’t know what you are saying. You speak a foreign tongue, a dead tongue.

Speak in your own language. Great pundits may have composed beautiful prayers, but they are borrowed. Lisp if you must, but in your own tongue. Say your own thing—at least before the divine, say your own thing.

See: even a mother is delighted when her child lisps before her! At least the lisping is his own; it comes from his heart.

And do not do this on the basis of belief; otherwise you will keep looking to the belief: “The fruit has not come yet—when will it come?” Your eyes will remain fixed on the fruit, and you will go on missing.

I tell you: life is a festival. Be an atheist—it will do; there is no obstacle in accepting the festival of life. The festival is already happening. The birds are singing—that is prayer. The trees stand in silence—that is meditation. Understand the great festival of life; be ravished by life’s flavor. Drop the theoretical chatter, and one day you will find that, ripening and coloring yourself in this very celebration of life, the divine has arrived of its own accord. Then reverent trust is born; not belief. And trust is liberating. Trust gives the taste of nectar.

Ram Kirti, the eternal is hidden in the transient. If you drop the transient, you miss the eternal as well. Just as the ocean is hidden in every wave—if you avoid the waves, you will miss the ocean too. Before launching the boat, if the boatman asks, “Where is the ocean? These are just little waves—how can I launch a boat in them? Who launches a boat in waves? Where is the ocean? These shallow, small ripples—what reliance can one place on them? Here now, gone the next moment; they don’t last even a moment—should I launch my boat in them? That would be dangerous. That would be risky. Where is the ocean? I will launch only into the ocean,” then sit there with your boat pulled up on the shore; you will rot, and the boat will rot too.

Inside the wave there is only the ocean. The wave is the ocean. Launch the boat; right beneath the waves you will find the ocean.

Do not condemn the world by calling it transient. The moment is an expression of the eternal. It is that One who has spoken, who has flashed, who has peeked through. Open your eyes and look around a little—what beauty there is, what rhythm—and you sit there with hackneyed notions! Someone kept telling you that the world is transient; you learned it and parroted it: “The world is transient!”

What is a moment? A moment is a wave of the eternal, a ripple arising in the eternal. So the eternal is hidden in the moment; the timeless is hidden in time. Do not run away—dive in. Take a plunge into the moment. But you have been taught the opposite, and for so long that it has begun to seem right. By being repeated too often, even lies begin to look like truth. That is why advertisers keep repeating lies: just keep repeating—never mind whether anyone believes it or not. People end up believing on their own. Keep repeating that Lux Toilet Soap is the best soap. No need to give any proof. There are thousands of soaps, but keep repeating, keep pointing, keep signaling—wherever a person goes: opens a newspaper, there is Lux Toilet Soap; listens to the radio, there is Lux Toilet Soap; turns on the television, there is Lux Toilet Soap; walks along the road—big billboards are there. Just keep resonating in his mind: Lux Toilet Soap, Lux Toilet Soap. One day, when he goes to buy soap and the shopkeeper asks, “Which one?” he will say, “Lux Toilet Soap,” and he will think that he is saying it out of his own thinking. It was not thought; it was conditioned.

In the same way you repeat religion. There is not the slightest difference between your religion and your Lux Toilet Soap. This is how you do prayer and worship; this is how you sift lofty doctrines—but all of it is secondhand babble. You have no experience of your own.

Now you say, “In the world everything is transient.” Do you know? Have you entered the moment? Have you dived into the moment? Have you peered behind the moment to see who stands behind the curtain? Behind the curtain, it is that very Ram. Probe a little! No—dead notions, repeated for centuries, grab hold of you; then you never reconsider them. And the moment you accept that the world is transient, immediately the greedy mind says, “Then what worth is there in the transient? So what should we hold on to?”

Why is there any need to hold? It is that which is holding you—what will you hold of it? You are in its hands. It birthed you, it keeps you alive, and one day it will carry you away. What will you hold? You have no need to hold it. You don’t cling to the earth, do you? You don’t worry that if you don’t hold the earth you might slip away into the infinite sky and fall!

Little children ask such questions: “The earth is round—so why don’t people fall off? At least Americans should fall off—they’re completely underneath; the earth is round.” And American children ask, “At least Indians should fall off!” But no one falls, and no one is holding the earth. The earth is holding you—its gravity holds you.

And just as the earth has an invisible gravity, far more subtle is the gravity of the Divine. It is holding you. You have no need to hold it. And its hold is such that it does not bind you, does not raise chains around you. Its hold is such that it also gives you complete freedom. It has not abandoned you, nor has it locked you in a prison. Like a mother who keeps one eye on where the child is playing—she has let him go, and yet she has not let him go completely. One eye follows him. She is engaged in a thousand tasks, yet in her heart the remembrance remains: the child is playing outside, may he not go too far, may he not reach the street, may he not come under the wheels of a cart or a horse!

Man is free, and yet someone is protecting him at every moment. Those hands are supporting you. You need not hold anything.

But the greedy mind says: “Here, everything is transient!” And notice the irony: those you consider your sages and saints are greedier than you are. What is their reason for renouncing the world? The same reason: the world is transient. They say: What essence is there in holding the transient? If we are to hold, we shall hold that which never leaves. Then what difference remains between you and them? You are a little less greedy; they are a little more greedy. You say, “We can make do with the transient.” They say, “We cannot make do with this; we want the eternal. Until we have firm assurance that what we have grasped will stay with us forever, we will not take risks.”

Compared to them, the worldly seem less greedy. Your so-called saints are great greed-mongers. Their desire is for heaven. They too want beautiful women—but heavenly nymphs: Urvashi, Menaka—nymphs who never age, who never fall ill, who remain forever young. They too desire the very fulfillments you desire, but they want them upon a secure foundation, lasting forever. They are looking for the wish-fulfilling tree under which, whatever they want, whenever they want it, will be granted at once. And you call these people saints! Look a little at the craving hidden within them. Even in heaven, what intentions do they harbor?

I have heard: a saint died—as saints are. By coincidence, two or three days later his disciple also died. The disciple went, headed for heaven, quite certain that the opportunity to meet the Master was coming, that he would meet the Master. On the way he began to think: what a grand seat under the greatest wish-fulfilling tree my Master must have received! He had been a great ascetic, had renounced everything, day and night chanting, “Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram.” Now surely Ram would have given the full fruit. He must have received the most beautiful woman—Urvashi—pressing his feet.

The disciple arrived. Under a tree sat the Master. Earlier he used to wear a loincloth; now he was stark naked—even the loincloth had gone. Those were worldly things; they were left behind in the world. Man comes naked and goes naked. There he was, naked as could be, sitting under a wish-fulfilling tree. The disciple was delighted. And not only that, a young woman was embracing him—very beautiful! Surely she must be Urvashi.

Immediately, prostrating full-length at the Master’s feet, he said, “Gurudev, blessed! I already knew these are the joys you would receive. You had earned merit—vows, fasts, pilgrimages—you did everything. You had to receive this. It was your due.”

The Master said, “Be quiet, you good-for-nothing! You still haven’t gained any sense. You are talking the same foolishness as before.”

The disciple said, “How can I be quiet? With my own eyes I see you receiving the reward of your merits.”

The Master said, “Quiet! This is not the reward of my merits; this is the punishment for this woman’s sins. This woman is not the reward for my merit—I am the punishment for her sins. Be quiet; do not speak in between. This arrangement has been made to torment this woman.”

Now, tie a woman to a saint—what greater torment can there be? But the guru is angry: “Be quiet, you fool.” He is indignant.

What is it that you want in heaven? If you open the scriptures, you will be astonished—who wrote this? Some sensualists must have. In heaven streams flow with liquor! There are beautiful women; flowers of gold bloom; diamonds and jewels are strewn along the roads. Whose imaginations are these? Whose sick fancies are these? Filled with greed, these people want to abandon the transient and attain the eternal.

I am saying something else to you. I am saying: the eternal is not different from this transient. God is not other than nature; he is merged in it, contained in it. Creator and creation are not two. As the dancer is merged in his dance, so the Creator is merged in his creation.

The day this becomes clear to you, this transience and this eternity, and all these dualities and oppositions, will drop from your mind; then there is bliss moment to moment, because at every moment That is present. Change yourself a little—change your way of seeing.

Do not ask: How long will this ecstasy last?
Let music surge in the golden strings;
let the world lose itself in these reverberations.
Sway on—do not ask, not even for a moment,
how long the tinkling of beauty’s anklet will last.
Do not ask: How long will this ecstasy last?

See the silver tide swelling in the sky,
see the clouds’ love surging for the moon;
do not ask the enchanted chakori’s eyes
how long the moon will move across the vast sky.
Do not ask: How long will this ecstasy last?

Look at the wine-pourer’s intoxicating glances,
look at the longings of the dazed drinkers;
in the heady gathering of the wine-drinkers—
do not ask how long the gospel of wine will last.
Do not ask: How long will this ecstasy last?

If adornment jars you, let it jar;
if a tryst offends you, let it offend;
go on thinking of love as a sin, but
do not ask how long this sin will last.
Do not ask: How long will this ecstasy last?

Eternal is this process of transience. It has never been broken; this current is unbroken. It has always been and will always be. These waves will go on arising.

Do not ask: How long will this ecstasy last?
You dive into this ecstasy. This dance, this intoxicating existence—become drunk with it.

I am not here to teach you gloom. I want to give you music. But I know your hindrance: you have been deeply influenced by melancholy minds. For centuries, in the name of religion you have been taught the denial of life, the opposition to life: everything is sin. Love is sin, relationship is sin. Friendship is sin. Bonds and kinship are sin. Everything is sin. You have become surrounded by sin. Not that everything is sin, but in your beliefs everything has turned into sin. Whatever you touch is wrong; whatever you do is wrong. You are surrounded by negation. Your neck is in the noose of negation.

I want to free you from negation. I say: this transient too is the play of that eternal. This is his rasa, his sportive dance. He is dancing in the midst of it. Whether you see him or not, join the dance. In joining the dance, the eye will open by which you will begin to see him.

And don’t ask about holding—what is there to hold? There is nothing to hold, nothing to renounce. Holding and renouncing are futile notions. Live! Live like a lotus in water. Neither grasp nor reject. If you grasp, then the trouble of renouncing begins. Those who grasp are then seized by worry: “Having grasped, now we may have to suffer hell—better to renounce.” They run away after renouncing, but even then the clutching does not leave their minds, because what they have renounced—there was attachment to it, there was color, there was juice. They have left it, but the wound remains behind. Then pain arises in the wound; again and again feelings arise: let us go back.

This world is very strange. Those who have, think those who have renounced must be enjoying. And those who have renounced are restless that the whole world is enjoying and only we have left; perhaps we have made a mistake! So astonishing is this world—so paradoxical. Here emperors think the fakirs are in bliss; here fakirs think the emperors are in bliss.

What do I want to say to you? I want to say: be in bliss where you are. There is no need to become a fakir, no need to become an emperor. If you are an emperor, fine; if you are a fakir, fine. Do not cling to fakirhood or to kingship. Do not cling. Whatever is, whatever has become available, accept it as the Lord’s prasad. And learn to live like the lotus in water: live in the water, but let not the water touch you.

It is not a matter of holding or dropping; it is a matter of remaining untouched. And I call that process meditation. You will go on doing the acts of the world—work, market, shop—and inside someone will sit afar, transparent: the witness, simply seeing. Nothing will touch that seer, that witness, that observer. If there is a bazaar, he will watch the bazaar; if there are the serene foothills of the Himalayas, the valleys, he will watch the serene valleys of the Himalayas. The witness stands apart. If there is noise, he hears the noise; if there is music, he hears the music; but the hearer remains separate, distinct. The hearer becomes neither the noise nor the music. If happiness comes—happiness; if sorrow comes—sorrow. Success, failure—just keep silently watching. And do not ask for anything other than what God gives. Let no complaint arise. The very absence of complaint is the true nature of prayer. That is the real form of prayer; that is prayer with life in it.

Let no complaint arise. Let gratitude remain—even in suffering let gratitude remain. For if he has given it, it will be with purpose. We may not be able to understand; we may not recognize it; but surely something is born even out of pain—some ripening comes, some maturity comes, some knowledge takes birth. If the feeling-state arises that every pain is a birth-pain—such a state is prayer.

That’s a very difficult question. I’m not Sherlock Holmes, nor am I some Lal Bujhakkad. How am I to find out who put on the underpants?

You must have heard the story: there was a theft in a village. A great search was made; nothing was found. Everyone in the village was questioned. Then people said, “We have a Lal Bujhakkad in our village—he can solve anything. Now only he can manage this.” Lal Bujhakkad was called. He arrived—sherwani, churidar pajama, achkan, Gandhi cap—looked exactly like our Morarjibhai Desai. Even the inspector thought, “He looks like an eminent leader; surely he’ll give a good answer.” Lal Bujhakkad stood there. The inspector asked, “Can you tell us who committed the theft?” Lal Bujhakkad closed his eyes, thought a bit, and said, “I can tell you—but in private. And what I say should not reach any other ears.”

This also made sense to the inspector; why get into trouble unnecessarily? At least they would learn who did it; the rest could be handled later. Lal Bujhakkad took him behind a wall. He looked around to make sure no one was there. He brought his mouth to the inspector’s ear and whispered, “It seems a thief committed the theft.”

What will that solve? Anyone knows a thief committed the theft. Now, some underpants-putter must have put on the underpants. At most one can say he must have been a devotee of underpants—an underpants-ist.

That’s why I said that nowadays there’s underpants politics afoot. Those people of the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh are underpants-ists. Even Morarji’s sherwani relies, in the end, on underpants. Some underpants-man must have put them on.

But one can infer a few things: they probably weren’t actually underpants. On a twenty-foot statue, a pajama would look like underpants. A twenty-foot statue... Whoever put it on must have been a great moralist: “The Tirthankara stands naked—this doesn’t look right; it’s indecent. Foreigners are taking photographs; India’s image will be damaged abroad! What will people say! And foreigners don’t understand anything; they don’t even know who a Tirthankara is. They’ve named him ‘Mr. Tirthankar’! Every foreigner who comes says, ‘Let’s go take a photo of Mr. Tirthankar.’ Foreigners even ask, ‘Why is Mr. Tirthankar standing naked?’ Silly questions... What do they know? And what answer can you give? And their whole interest is precisely that he is standing nude. So some moralist, some protector of Indian culture, must have had the idea: ‘Put underpants on him.’”

I say, instead of underpants, if they had put on a churidar pajama, it would have been better—because someone can easily tear off underpants. But try putting on a churidar pajama—it’s hard to put on and hard to take off. That’s its merit: two hours to get into it, two hours to get out of it. Only leaders can wear it; who else has the leisure to spend two hours taking off and two hours putting on!

You ask: Who did it?

Another story comes to mind. In a school, an inspector arrived unexpectedly. As things go in Indian schools, the teacher was sitting with his legs on the desk, reading a newspaper. Some boys were playing cards in the back. Some were making paper darts and shooting them at the girls. Some were pulling girls’ braids. Business as usual—Indian culture doing its work perfectly. Suddenly the inspector entered—startled, the teacher panicked and quickly put down the newspaper. The inspector asked, “What’s going on?” As Indians do, he blurted, “It’s a religion class.”

“What is being taught?”

Now in a religion class... he couldn’t think of anything at once. He thought he should at least say something the children might know. He said, “We are studying the story of Lord Ramchandra.”

“All right,” said the inspector. He turned to the children: “Tell me, children—at the swayamvara, who broke Shiva’s bow?” All the children looked at each other, glanced here and there. One boy looked especially flustered, the most scared; he began to tremble. The inspector said to him, “You tell me—who broke Shiva’s bow?”

He said, “First let me tell you, sir, I’ve been sick for three days; I didn’t come to school. Someone else must have broken it. I had no hand in it—otherwise they always trap me whenever anything breaks. That’s why I’m trembling and afraid—here comes another mess. Something’s broken again.”

The inspector was astonished. “This is the limit for a religion class!” He asked the teacher, “What do you say?” The teacher replied, “More than likely, this scoundrel broke it. It’s true he hasn’t been here for three days—maybe that’s why he stayed away. He broke it and ran. He’s a bad one, a mischief-maker. I know his father, and his father’s father. The whole village is troubled by them.”

That did it. The inspector said, “What a religion class!” With nothing left to say, he went straight to the headmaster and narrated the whole story. The headmaster said, “Let it go. Whoever broke it, broke it—we’ll have it repaired. Whatever the expense, so be it. Don’t make a mountain out of this. Things break in a school—so many children, things get broken.”

You ask me who put the underpants on? I didn’t. I haven’t stepped outside this ashram in five years. That much I can tell you. As for who else did, you can find out. But it was your stupidity that put them on.

This country has grown very foolish. Once it saw days of glory, days of exaltation. Then it built Khajuraho, built Konark, built the temples of Puri and Bhubaneswar. Those were temples of life, of exuberance, of celebration—dance, music, song! They were temples of love. Later the country declined. It grew old, decayed. It forgot the rhythms of life. The intoxication of life faded. People began to think only of how to cross the ocean of becoming, how to get free of birth and death. People became death-oriented. People became suicidal. What you call “freedom from the cycle of birth and death” is not some religious state of mind—it is simply a suicidal tendency.

This country fell. It lost its sun-crowned peaks. It descended into very low valleys. From there it can see nothing but death. It is frightened of everything—afraid of human nature itself. It doesn’t want to grant acceptance to anything natural.

Nudity is human naturalness. What is there to fear in it? Those people must have been courageous when Mahavira went nude and thousands with him went nude! And those who accepted and honored them must have been courageous too. And not only men—this will surprise you—a wondrous woman arose in Kashmir: Lalla. She lived nude. Men remaining nude—fine; but a woman is even more given to modesty. Yet Lalla was a woman like Mahavira. In the whole history of the world, only Lalla can be placed alongside Mahavira. And Kashmir honored her greatly. In Kashmir people say, “We know only two words—Allah and Lalla.” We have revered only two. A nude woman! And Lalla was very beautiful—a Kashmiri beauty. And when a person becomes absorbed in samadhi, another beauty is born. Lalla was in samadhi. Then an extraordinary grace descends. The beauty is no longer ordinary; it becomes otherworldly.

Seeing that extraordinarily beautiful woman nude, people did not protest. They bowed in respect. People were alive then. Blood still ran in the veins of the community. The community still embraced life and nature—it was natural. Now things have gone wrong. Now things are bad. Whenever a people become deeply degraded, they lose their roots in life and begin seeking support in death.

That is why people are angry with me. Because I want the temples of Khajuraho to be built again. I want aarti to be waved again in Khajuraho’s temples, lamps to be lit again. They should not remain merely as ruins. I want that men and women as wondrous as Mahavira and Lalla should again walk this earth.

I want to make this country young again. But the old are angry—very angry! The pundits, priests, traditionalists are angry. They feel I am corrupting religion. They don’t even know their own culture.

Morarji Desai says that my existence is very harmful to India’s image; news of me should not go out into the world—otherwise India’s image will fall.

Open a little of India’s history! Just four or six days ago, newspapers reported that near Chitrakoot a small new Khajuraho has been found—buried in the jungle amid ruins. It is even more significant than Khajuraho, because its value is this: in Khajuraho, the nude statues of lovers in embrace—of joy, of delight—are men and women. But on the newly found temple near Chitrakoot, the figures are of gods and goddesses. They too are nude. They too are immersed in rapture. They too are in love, bound in embrace. The mithuna figures are of deities! That’s even more dangerous. The ground will slip further beneath Morarjibhai’s feet: Khajuraho was still acceptable—at least they were human beings. You could say, “They were only human—perhaps corrupt.” But here the statues are of gods and goddesses!

Open your Puranas. Those were days alive. In those Puranas you will find stories that sometimes the gods of heaven were enchanted by a woman of earth. Gods of heaven, secretly, would fall in love with a woman of earth! Yet we did not strip those gods of their divinity; we accepted them as gods. We considered it our good fortune that a god might sometimes fall in love with an earthly woman—that is the blessedness of our earth. We did not see any immorality in it. We saw it as the glory of the earth.

If Morarjibhai were to get hold of these books, he would strike out such lines: “This is very wrong—that even gods are corrupt! Gods too fall in love with women of earth!”

And it wasn’t one-way. Sometimes apsaras from the sky fell in love with earth. Urvashi descended and fell in love with Pururava. It seems that heaven and earth were very close then—not so much distance. People came and went.

These symbolic myths are very sweet. And if you go into your Puranas—which you don’t; you merely worship them occasionally, offer two flowers, apply sandalwood paste, and forget—you’ll find this: Do you know how Shiva’s lingam arose? What is the story in the Puranas? And if my presence is supposed to damage India’s image, what will you do with these Shiva lingams spread all over the country? Morarjibhai, post a policeman at every Shiva lingam so no one can take a photograph. And burn the Puranas that carry these stories. Because the Puranic story is astonishing.

The Puranas say that a dispute arose between Vishnu and Brahma. It grew so heated that no solution was in sight. They said, “Let us go and ask Shiva, make him the arbiter. We will accept whatever he decides.” So both went. They were so angry, the quarrel so intense, that they didn’t even knock—they just walked in. Shiva and Parvati were making love. They were so absorbed in their love that who came and who went was of no concern to them. Brahma and Vishnu stood for a while—a minute, half an hour; minutes piled upon minutes—and their love-absorption continued. Brahma and Vishnu forgot their dispute altogether, and instead blamed Shiva: “We are standing here; we are being insulted; Shiva has not even turned to look at us. We curse you: you shall be known forever only in the symbol of the generative organ.”

Thus arose the Shiva lingam. No one will make your image; you will be represented only as the generative organ. That will be your symbol. This is our curse—so that it will always be remembered that we had come, but you were so lost in your love that you neglected us.

What will you do with these Puranas? And these are not isolated tales; they are spread throughout. But they were of a different kind—people who embraced life. People who did not, at every little thing, start wailing, “Life is fleeting!” who did not, at every little thing, cry, “O Lord, take me away now! Free me from this world!” They said: if God has sent us into the world, it is a testing, a teaching; we must pass through it—and the more joyfully we pass, the better.

So whoever put those underpants on the Tirthankara’s statue must have been a moralist, a Gandhian, a hidebound conservative with a decayed mind.

It will surprise you to know that Purushottamdas Tandon advised Mahatma Gandhi that the temples of Khajuraho and Konark should be buried under earth, because they damage India’s image. Gandhi was agreeable. Fortunately, Rabindranath Tagore strongly opposed it: “This is wrong. These sculptures are symbols of exquisite beauty. They are living examples of human love for human beings. They are not obscene.” Tagore insisted so much: “They are not obscene; they are supremely exuberant! Look at the expressions on the faces! If ever artists anywhere succeeded in carving samadhi into stone, it was at Khajuraho.” Because of Tagore’s strong opposition, the plan was halted; otherwise Gandhi was ready to have them buried—big platforms built over the temples, and once in a long while, for some special guest, the earth could be removed for a viewing. They would remain historically attested, but erased from the earth, hidden away.

If such a people die, it should not be a surprise. Death is then natural.

I want us to be capable of embracing life as it is, as God has given it. If Mahavira stood nude, what harm is there in making his statue nude? But even Jains devise tricks.

I was a guest in one home. A very beautiful picture of Mahavira hung there. But the tricks—look at human dishonesty! You even cheat your own Tirthankaras whom you worship. The picture was of Mahavira—but with a bush in front, and the branches spread just so as to cover his nudity. Underpants put on by contrivance. Mahavira was shown standing there—nude, not clothed—but the tree branches were spread in such a way that the leaves hid his nudity. I asked my host, “Do you worship this picture?”

He said, “Yes, I worship it daily. It’s very lovely.”

I said, “The picture is lovely, but it is also evidence of your dishonesty. How did this bush come to be here? And how did it sprout exactly at this spot? And how long has Mahavira been standing there—will he not move?”

He said, “I never thought of it that way. You are right.”

If Mahavira was nude, then at least you who worship him should accept that he was nude. You are hiding it. Dishonesty, cleverness—these have made their home in our hearts. We have made certain notions and then impose ourselves upon everything according to those notions. We won’t grant anyone their freedom. If this was Mahavira’s delight, if in his meditation this flowered—that he should abandon all clothing—so be it. Every person has the right to be private, to be personal. And that is the sign of a dignified society: that we accept him in his privacy, grant him his privacy. If Mahavira preferred to remain nude, if that pleased him, it was perfectly fine—his affair. Why should it make anyone restless? If it troubles you so much, lower your eyes as you pass; put on dark glasses; tie a bandage over your eyes. Your eyes are yours. But don’t put underpants on Mahavira; don’t grow a bush around him. Your eyes are yours—if you don’t want to see, close them. Who is forcing you?

No—people want to impose themselves on others. They want to force the other to conform to them.

The questioner even has a name: Neetikumar! Rarely do you find people who also fulfill the meaning of their names; otherwise here the ugliest of women are named Sundarbai—Beautiful Lady. Thieves and ruffians are named Achchelal—Good Son. The blind are named Nainsukh—Joy of the Eyes. But Neetikumar, whoever named you thought carefully. So what is making you uneasy?

You ask: Measured against the signs of the enlightened, the behavior of the ashramites doesn’t seem proper in society. Why don’t you tell your disciples?

What are the “signs” of an enlightened one? Has someone taken a contract on that? Mahavira was naked; Buddha was not. So which is the sign of enlightenment—being naked or wearing clothes? Buddha sat silent under a tree; Krishna danced while playing the flute. Which is the sign—sitting silently beneath a tree, or playing the flute? Rama walked with bow and arrows. Mahavira said, “Place your feet with such care that even an ant does not die.” Now, one doesn’t carry a bow and arrows just as a burden; for what would he carry it? It’s not as if Lord Ramachandra was going to take part in a Republic Day parade in Delhi! So which is the sign—tiptoeing lest an ant be hurt, or walking with a bow and arrows?

The Jains say that if Mahavira walked along a path, thorns lying upright would turn aside—because how could a thorn prick a virtuous one like Mahavira? And Jesus was crucified: not just pricked by a thorn—crucified. What then is the sign of the enlightened—that thorns do not prick, or that one is nailed to a cross? So many enlightened ones have been on the earth; how will you find “the signs”? Till now there are no standardized signs. No government department has decreed, “We will stamp and seal who is enlightened, and list the signs.” What, exactly, do you call a sign?

Mahavira says: even guard your breath lest a microbe die; strain your water before drinking. And Krishna tells Arjuna: “Fight, Arjuna; don’t worry. Na hanyate hanyamane sharire—no one is slain when the body is slain. So strike without hesitation. The one who strikes is the same one! And the soul is immortal. Nainam chindanti shastrani, nainam dahati pavakah.” So who is the enlightened one? Is it Krishna, who says, “Strike without hesitation—no one ever dies; therefore violence cannot be,” or is it Mahavira, who says, “Don’t even drink water at night in the dark—some insect might fall in”? Mahavira would not turn over in his sleep at night, lest an ant that had come near be crushed. He slept the whole night on one side. Who, then, is the enlightened one? What are the signs, Neetikumar—will you decide what they are?

That is why I do not impose anything on my disciples. I give them meditation. In some, meditation will sing forth as a flute; in others, meditation will settle as silence. If I told them, “All of you must play the flute,” great trouble would arise, because some very out-of-tune flutes would begin to play. Those whose very life-breath holds no flute would sit and try to play; they would be annoyed, they would curse me—“What a mess you’ve put us in: play the flute or else you’re not enlightened! The flute won’t play; the neighbors are angry; but we must play, otherwise we are disqualified.” Or if I told them, “Never play the flute—just sit quietly under a tree,” what of those in whom the flute is being born? They would fidget and burn with restlessness.

I give no mold. I give only an inner thread; not conduct, but the innerness. Then conduct will differ for each person. Each individual is so different, so unique. I honor uniqueness and difference. So I give you meditation; in one, meditation will become a flute; in another, Meera dancing. In one, meditation will become silence; in another, it will speak; in another still, it will become wordless. In some, meditation will be nakedness; in others, it will take some form—endlessly many forms. What I teach is meditation: that your inner connection with the divine be joined—this is all I teach. Anything more would be injustice; it would be interference; it would be a violation of your freedom.

But your habits have gone bad. You have grown used to being slaves. You have lived with such sadhus and pundits that they clamp your neck completely. They seize everything: sit like this, stand like that, eat this, drink that, sleep now. They hand you a total regimen for your life. They take all responsibility from you. They make you slaves, they make you machines. You find a certain convenience in that: responsibility is off your shoulders. But at the same time you lose your freedom. And where freedom is lost, the soul is lost. There, the door to the divine is lost.

I give you freedom—but there is a risk, because with freedom the responsibility is yours. Now you will have to think through your own way of living. I have given you light; you will have to find the path. I have lit a lamp in your hand. Now live as you wish; I will not obstruct your life in the least. This is my distinctive approach—and it is hard to understand.

Naturally, what Neetikumar says is understandable. But people like him do not value the privacy and uniqueness of each person. They would want me to raise a crowd like soldiers. A sannyasin is not a soldier; a sannyasin is at the opposite pole from a soldier. A soldier’s work is not to think for himself, only to obey. A sannyasin’s work is to awaken for himself and to live from that awakening. There is a great difference.

The world no longer needs soldiers. We have had enough soldiers and suffered enough from them. Now we need free-spirited sannyasins—who will understand their own responsibility and live in their own way. And it is my conviction that if a person is living in his own way and not harming anyone, not wounding anyone, no one else has the right to interfere within his boundaries. What is your problem? Perhaps your notion is that a sannyasin should not dance. That is your notion—so you need not dance. But if some sannyasin is dancing and you conclude therefore that he is not a sannyasin, you are stepping beyond your limits. Neetikumar, that would be aniti—unethical.

Every situation is different; every inner state is different.

I have heard: At a poet’s wedding, the priest was administering vows to the couple. The poet’s friend spoke up: “Panditji, please add this vow as well—that the groom shall not, against the bride’s will, pressure her into listening to his poetry.”
This is a special circumstance. If one is marrying a poet, the priest should indeed add such a vow—where do poets find listeners! The wife will be helpless, and if the priest has already decreed, “Obey your husband; be his servant,” then the husband will sit down with his ledger every day and recite his verses. She will have to listen, and not only listen—she will have to nod and agree.

The friend was right; the priest might not have known this was a poet-king! Their greatest danger is that they will rhyme and impose it on your head. Better take this vow now: there shall be no coercion.

One day I asked Mulla, “How are your four sons?”
Mulla said, “One has become a musician, the second a poet, the third a leader, and the fourth is showing bad signs too.”
Which signs are good, and which bad? Mulla is right: one’s a musician, one’s a poet, one’s a leader, and the fourth is showing bad signs too. Everyone will have his own way of seeing.

On the holy festival of Diwali, a renowned social organization decided to open a library in its hall. The next day the chairman phoned a big bookseller and said, “Please send complete, bound sets of Tulsidas, Kabir, Meera, Kalidasa, Shakespeare, Goethe, etc.—and listen, also send some books worth reading.”
Because those sets are not for reading; the “books worth reading” are something else. Those sets are for display—people arrange them in cupboards to show off.

At a ration line, a thin man stood ahead of a fat man. A policeman observed that the thin man kept stepping out and then back into the line. The policeman said, “Sir, please stay in line and stop stepping out.” The thin man, in a plaintive voice: “Sahib, this fat man behind me keeps pushing me. When the push becomes unbearable, I step out. When I gather the strength to endure again, I step back in.” Hearing this, the fat man flared up: “Officer, I’m not pushing him—I’m only breathing.”
People are different—very different. No one has the right to impose from above. I can give you a way of seeing, not a code of conduct. Until now you have only been given conduct—that is what has been most dangerous. Because of it you became hypocrites. Because of it you committed adultery against your own privacy. You never let your own rhythm emerge; you suppressed it. You accepted what you were told, and pressed down what was surging within you. You split in two. Conflict was born in you.

That is the human melancholy. A mind riven by conflict will live in sorrow. Conflict is the affliction; joy arrives only when you become one again.

Here I am engaged in making my sannyasins one. I want to snatch away all their ideals—because by those ideals they have become hypocrites. You think that without ideals a person will fall. I think it is because of ideals that a person has become a hypocrite. What a person needs is a vision of reality, not an ideal.

Take someone who is angry. Your usual approach is: “Don’t be angry—anger is bad. If you are angry you’ll go to hell. You’ll lose respect. People won’t honor you. Don’t be angry.” But what is the angry person to do? He suppresses it, swallows it, slides it inside. Anger seeps into his blood, fills his veins. Earlier he was angry only now and then; now he becomes angry twenty-four hours a day. Anger becomes his fate. Above, he smiles; that smile is false, paper-thin. And this ruins his life. He will keep smiling outwardly, burning within. Neither will the smile be genuine, nor will the fire find a way out; and if the poison does not drain, you can never be clean.

So I do not say that non-anger is a goal. I say: if anger is there, the goal is to know anger—to recognize it, to become acquainted with it. The ideal is not in the future. I am not asking you to become non-angry. I am asking: anger is within you—this is the fact. Know this fact; be mindful of it; recognize it. Catch hold of it: what is it? Don’t decide in advance. If you already decide that anger is wrong, how will you know it? Observe—observe impartially. And you will be astonished: simply by observing, anger evaporates. Because the moment the witness awakens, the moment the capacity to see arises within you, anger cannot survive. For the necessary condition for anger’s continuance is broken. What is that necessary condition? That the witness not be present. There must be unconsciousness for anger to last. Identification must be there. You must forget that you are; only anger must be there—smoke and more smoke—and you one with that smoke. Then anger persists. But if, outside that smoke—calm, thought-free—you stand and watch: “Smoke is rising all around; anger is surrounding me. What is this anger? Let me see it, recognize it. It is my own energy; let me not remain unfamiliar with it; let me know it”—with such a feeling, if you look at anger, you will be amazed. You will neither need to throw it at someone—for if you throw anger, a chain begins, anger upon anger without end—nor will you need to repress it—for if you repress, the poison sinks within and saturates your tissues.

Neither repression nor indulgence; between the two is the state of witnessing—that is what I teach. Then there is no need for repression, no need for indulgence. From that midpoint, transcendence happens. You go beyond mind. And for one who begins to arrive there—where is anger there, where is lust, where is greed? You do not have to “renounce” greed, or lust, or anger—they fall away.

Understand the difference: they fall away! You have been told: “Renounce.” I tell my sannyasins: I will teach you the art of lighting a lamp. When the lamp is lit, darkness goes of its own accord; you don’t have to remove it. I do not give you conduct; I do not give you any code of conduct; I do not give you ideals. I do not hand you a fixed picture of what you should be. I give you a process for recognizing what you are. Remember this difference well. I give you a mirror, so that you can see your own face. In that very seeing, revolution happens. In that very vision is transformation.

Narayandas! There is no destination anywhere. The journey itself is the destination. If there were a destination, it would be death. If there were a destination, then what would you do? If it arrived, what would be left?

The divine is not a destination; the divine is a pilgrimage. Journey upon journey... The Kaaba never arrives, Kailash never arrives; far away, it only seems as if it’s coming. It calls, it does not come. You go on, you keep walking; and walking itself becomes blissful. Everything is in the walking. There is no other shore—there is only the midstream, only the midstream.

Drop the very idea that you have to reach somewhere. Here is where you must drown; there is nowhere to reach. And the one who is ready to drown here—he has arrived. The one who is willing to take the journey itself as the destination—his destination has come. It has come now, in this very moment, because this moment too is a moment of the journey.

“Destination” means: far away, somewhere in the future. “Journey” means: what is now, here, in this very moment.

When love is with the midstream, who would ask for the shore?
I am gathering in my arms the flow of the waves;
My youth so closely resembles the waves.
Birth is like a rising wave, death like a falling wave;
Life is the story from birth to death.
Let me kiss the lips of the waves, fearless—
When drowning itself is the cherished aim, who would ask for support?
When the Beloved is in the midstream, who would ask for the shore?

Dark clouds have encircled the nesting places of the star-birds;
Storms have laid a fierce siege upon the horizon.
Just as in a shattered heart despair wells up,
So too darkness is swelling in the sky.
When the life-breath longs to wander in the monsoon darkness,
Who would ask for the Pole Star to guide the way?
When love is with the midstream, who would ask for the shore?

The lamp of life has always floated upon the waves;
From the heart itself it has spoken the heart’s truth.
In its wavering flame it has preserved faith in life,
Burning silently, enduring love’s own curse.
When it has fallen in love with the tempests of death,
Who would ask for your veil for shelter?
When love is with the midstream, who would ask for the shore?

This is what I am teaching; this is my message—midstream is everything. Fall in love with the midstream. The journey is all. Live this moment fully, in totality. There is nowhere to reach, nothing to become. Everything, as it is, is perfect.

I’ll tell a little story. When Lanka’s former ruler Ravana was on his deathbed, Rama sent Lakshman to learn statecraft from him—saying, “Son, we may have won, but we have no experience of running the administration here; go and ask him how to run things.” Lakshman went there and said to Ravana, “You are dying now—tell us how to govern here.” Ravana said, “Half the politics I handled, half Kumbhakarna did. Had you gotten in touch with Kumbhakarna as well?” Lakshman said, “Yes—he said: eat to your heart’s content and then sprawl on the sofa with your eyes closed. This is the best method.”

“Tell me,” Ravana asked, “are you going to unleash dictatorship, or will you run things by democracy? Which method will be suitable?”
“What will go down well with the people?”
“Nothing,” said Ravana. “When you impose dictatorship, the people will yearn for democracy; and when you implement democracy, they’ll sing the praises of dictatorship.”
“Then?”
“Then run things in such a way that people can’t make out whether it’s dictatorship or democracy. In sum, maintain a state of confusion.”
“Any programs for the people?”
“Every year or two, toss out a new slogan or two. And keep pushing them along. If that doesn’t work, start quarrels among yourselves. Tell the people: once our internal disputes are settled, we’ll do something for you. Now take care that those internal disputes don’t get settled before the next election.” Saying this, Ravana closed his eyes. It is said that after that, Ramrajya dawned over Jambudvipa.

That is exactly what is happening in Delhi. Ramrajya is coming to Jambudvipa! On attaining power, people don’t want to do anything. Doing is risky, because mistakes can be made. Whoever does anything can make mistakes. So the sly politicians who reach power just procrastinate; they don’t do anything. Because if they do anything, they might make a mistake, someone might get upset. If you do something, someone or other will be displeased. If you do something, it will go against someone and in favor of someone else. You won’t be able to keep everyone happy. And a politician tries to keep everyone happy. There’s only one way to keep everyone happy: don’t do anything; talk—make grand, lofty speeches. Keep talking as much as you can. Keep buying time, postponing to the future. Keep giving fine slogans and keep people deluded.

And people are strange—they look and still cannot see! People are so blind!

A politician’s only goal is to somehow reach power. Once he reaches power, his goal is fulfilled, his destination arrived. Now he has nothing to do—except one more goal: how to remain in power; how not to be unseated by someone else. First he strives to reach, then he strives to entrench. Time passes in just this. No one really wants to do anything. Doing is dangerous; it is risky. And the doer is never tolerated by the public. Because whatever you do will go against some of the public’s notions. The country’s population is increasing. If you do something to curb population, the public gets angry. Because the public has always had the habit of “have as many children as you like.” That habit gets obstructed. The public is deluded that masculinity lies in siring children! The public is deluded that if a family-planning program is applied to them, their manhood has been stolen. People are very strange!

I went to a village. There Swami Karpatri Maharaj was giving a lecture. The house where I was staying was right opposite, and the lecture was going on there, so I had to listen. Nearby, a dam was to be built. A tribal area. He was explaining to the tribals that the dam should not be allowed, because the water that comes out of it will be useless water—impotent water. I too was a bit startled—how can water be impotent! I listened more carefully. He was explaining, “The electricity will already have been taken out of it. When the electricity has been taken out of the water, what is left?”
And the people were saying, “That’s true—if the electricity is gone, what on earth is left!” The people turned against the dam—that it should not be built, otherwise all the water will become impotent. Then how will farming be done? Its real essence would already have been removed!

There are people like this! The public is naïve, superstitious. Politicians are schemers, dishonest. A politician keeps only one thing in mind: elections come around quickly. He’ll have to seek votes from these same people; don’t make them angry. If you anger them, you’ll be in trouble. Keep them happy. So the politician goes to their temple, also to the mosque, also to the gurdwara, bows to the Shankaracharya as well. If there’s a fair, he appears at the fair. If there’s Ramlila, he turns up at Ramlila. He shows up at the Kumbh. He should support the people’s superstitions.

And the irony is: only if the public’s superstitions break can anything of their life’s welfare happen. And this is the great obstacle. The people themselves don’t want their superstitions to be broken. The people themselves do not want their own good and welfare to happen. So those who do nothing are liked by the public. The reason for the anger at Indira was precisely this: she tried to do something. The public will be happy with Morarji. He did nothing at all—there’s no reason to be unhappy. He won’t do anything either; he’ll pass the time. And just recently he told the people, “Pray for my long life.” Isn’t that enough, sir? Are you going to torment us further? You want an even longer life?

This country has to understand a few things. First, that many of the causes of your troubles, your poverty, your misery, your wretchedness, lie in your superstitions. And until your superstitions are broken, your wretchedness will not end, your poverty will not end, your troubles will not end. And whoever breaks your superstitions, you will get angry with them. For this reason people are angry with me.

I have nothing to do with politics, because I am engaged in fundamental work. I am trying to cut at the root. My whole concern is that your superstitions be broken. If your superstitions break, everything will be fine. You will gain a little understanding. You will become part of the twentieth century.

India is still not contemporaneous; it is dragging at least fifteen hundred years behind. Those fifteen hundred years must be made up. India must be pulled and made modern. Politicians cannot do this work; it cannot be done in Delhi. This work has to be done by those who have nothing to do with politics.

I have nothing to do with politics. I have no curiosity about politics. But certainly, I do have the eagerness that this country’s fortune also opens, that this country also be happy, that this country also be prosperous. Because if this country is prosperous, then Rama’s tune will resound. If this country is prosperous, then people will sing songs, will pray to the Lord. If this country is prosperous, then temple bells will ring again, the puja trays will be arranged again. If this country is prosperous, then Krishna’s flute will play again, the rasa will be danced again!

In this poor, destitute country—if you bring Krishna here now, where will you find a Radha to dance? Even if you bring Krishna now, he will be in great difficulty: where will he steal butter? Where is the butter? How will he break the pots of milk and curd? Forget milk and curd—pots of water themselves are hard to come by. There is such a crowd at the taps! And if he breaks the pot of one or two gopis returning with water they filled from the tap, she will file a police report against Krishna. She had been standing since three in the morning to fill water; by nine she finally managed to fill it—and this gentleman threw a pebble.

Religion is born when a country is prosperous. Religion is the fragrance of prosperity.

So yes, I certainly want this country to be fortunate. But the biggest obstacle is precisely the beliefs of this country. Therefore I am fighting you—for your sake. You yourselves will be angry with me. You yourselves will be enraged with me. Because I will pull the ground from under your feet.

But the ground must be pulled. You need new ground. You need a new field of feeling. You need a new imprint in consciousness. You need a new sky to be available. You have shut yourselves in a grave. The people of Delhi are laying flowers on your grave.

That’s all for today.