Mrityoma Amritam Gamaya #9

Anand Maitreya! I affirm the whole human being. The fragmented human being may be convenient, but he will be neither peaceful nor blissful. The fragmented human being may be useful, but he will not be joyous. And in the past, only fragments of man have been accepted.

Man is multidimensional. We can accept one dimension and deny the others. In fact, this seems logical, because the fragments appear to oppose one another. The head lives by logic; the heart lives by feeling. Those who chose the head, by the very logic of their choice, had to reject feeling.

But if a person remains only a head—where no flowers of feeling bloom, where there is only mathematics and logic and calculation—then that person will be mechanical. In such a life there can be no dance, no poetry, no music. Such a person may earn wealth, gain status and prestige, and be highly efficient—because the hindrance that feeling might bring to efficiency will not be there. But his eyes will be dry; they will never glisten with delight or with sorrow. His heart will be a desert—no greenery, no birds singing.

And such a person’s vision will be very narrow, very constricted. He will accept nothing beyond matter, because only matter can be weighed on the scales of the head. He will see the outer, but he will lose the capacity to look within. He will know everything—except himself. His plight will be like the old fable from the Panchatantra.

Ten blind men crossed a river in flood. They thought, “Let’s count, so we know no one was swept away.” They counted—and all ten began to weep, because the count would go only to nine and stop. Each counter left himself out.

A passerby asked why they were crying. When he heard the reason, he laughed. He glanced at them: there were ten. He said, “Count in front of me.” He watched them count, saw the mistake—that each counted the others and forgot himself.

So the passerby said, “I’ll teach you the right way to count. I will slap each of you, one by one. The one who is slapped will say, ‘One!’ The next will say, ‘Two!’ And so on.”

Naturally, when the tenth man was slapped, he cried, “Ten!” The passerby said, “Now you’ve found the missing man you were mourning! He was never lost—there was only a small error in your accounting. The counter forgot to count himself.”

That is the head’s mistake: it counts everything and forgets itself. As spectacles see everything but cannot see themselves; as the eye sees all but cannot see itself. The eye needs a mirror to see itself. Poetry is that mirror.

Poetry gives you a glimpse of yourself. Poetry offers your own fragrance back to you. Poetry is the upsurge of feeling within you, a wave of feeling. Poetry is your first intimation of yourself, your first encounter within. Without poetry a person is not truly human. He had the possibility of being human, but he missed.

And today this misfortune has deepened, because we teach science; we train every person to become adept at doubt, proficient in thought and reasoning. From school to university, for twenty-five years—a third of life—we spend our time learning mathematics and logic. Naturally, if nothing is seen beyond matter, it is no surprise. Then only the body is visible; the soul is not experienced. The world is evident; God is not felt. Then God seems the talk of madmen, or the imagination of children, or a dream—but not truth.

Without poetry, the bridge between the visible and the invisible will not be built in your life. By poetry I mean precisely this: a bridge between the visible and the invisible. A rainbow that joins the earth to the sky; that dissolves the duality, makes the two shores one.

By poetry I do not mean merely what is ordinarily understood. Poetry includes all that is not born of logic alone—music, dance, sculpture, architecture. Whatever is not produced merely by reason, whatever holds something more than logic, that is poetry. And until there is poetry, there is no possibility of religion.

It is no accident that the world’s scriptures are unparalleled examples of poetry—be it the Quran, the Gita, or the Upanishads. Even those scriptures not written in verse are not mere prose. The sayings of Jesus are not in verse, but they are filled with great poetry; every pore is poetic; each utterance is drenched in rasa! Perhaps words so suffused with poetry were never spoken before nor after. It may not be verse, but there is a clear gleam of what is beyond logic. Whether Buddha speaks or Mahavira, whether prose or verse, in depth you will find poetry shimmering.

Therefore I call poetry the step above science. Science is the lowest rung—maximally useful for that very reason. And science is accessible to all because it is the lowest rung. No one denies science, nor can they, because science is like a stone. Poetry is a flower; you may deny it if you choose. It is beauty; there is no difficulty in rejecting it. And if one sits stubbornly, no one can prove beauty.

This rain drumming on the roof, this soft shower—for the one who can hear, the resonance of Om is audible in it; for the one who can hear, there is a glimpse of the unstruck sound. Otherwise it is only noise. Only sound. Perhaps even a disturbance, an interference in your thoughts. You might wish this nuisance were not happening.

Winds passing through the trees may be only a gale. But for one who has the capacity to see, in those winds a great symphony is hidden. For the eye of feeling, a flower is not merely a flower; something has descended upon it—from the far, beyond the sky! The flower becomes God’s temple, because in the delicacy of the flower, the delicacy of existence is revealed. In its colors, the ecstasy of existence is vividly expressed. In its fragrance, the meaning, dignity, and grandeur of existence—its footfalls—are heard.

For poetry, the heart must know how to dance. For poetry, you must have the capacity, at times, to set the head aside. The head is a useful instrument, but to clutch it for twenty-four hours is foolishness. You are the master of the head. There is no need to make the head your prison. Free yourself from it now and then.

When clouds gather in the sky and the peacocks begin to dance, join the dance. When, far away in the night’s darkness, the call of the cuckoo is heard, open your heart and invite her within. When the papiha calls—pi kahaan?—let its cry reverberate within you; let every hair on your body tingle. And when the sun rises or sets, don’t let these wondrous moments pass just like that; let something rise within you, let something set within you. When the sky fills with stars, don’t sit empty; let the inner sky mirror those stars. Become a lake of consciousness so the whole sky can descend within. Slowly, you will develop a taste for poetry.

One who cannot dance, cannot sing, cannot play the flute, cannot pluck the ektara, has had no intimacy with the alghoza—such a person has cut himself off from himself. He has made himself a stranger to himself. He is unfamiliar with his own being. He does not know who he is—and cannot.

I call poetry the second rung—higher than science, superior to it. Less useful, more meaningful. Science is useful. If you fall ill, you must go to science. If you run a factory, you must consult science. If your car breaks down, you must call the technician. Science has utility. Therefore I am not against science. But I want to remind you: its usefulness is not the ultimate value. Useful for whom? For you. It is not above you; you are above it.

And science is useful so that you may enter the realm of poetry. If only we could understand this, science would be a blessing. Thus far it has proved a curse. Science will give you more time, because what once took hours it will accomplish in moments. Science will lengthen your life. Science will gather such capacities around you that if you choose, you may dance, you may sing, you may rest, you may meditate. Science will give prosperity—but prosperity has only one significance: that the inward journey may begin.

So I am not an enemy of science. I want it to be assimilated. But do not stop at science. Above science I want to pour the color of poetry. If science can build the temple, good; but the inner sanctum of that temple, its garbhagriha, can only be of poetry. If the temple is merely a structure with no sanctum—no place to invite the Supreme Guest, to enthrone the Supreme Deity—then the temple is empty, meaningless. There is no purpose in building it. Its significance will be in poetry.

But do not stop even at poetry. Some people stop there.

The head is the instrument for the outer journey; feeling is the instrument for the inner journey. Use both. But never forget—even for a moment—that you are beyond both.

You are neither the head nor the heart. When you stand behind the head, logic is created; science is born; mathematics arises. When you stand behind feeling, waves of poetry rise; music is born. And when you are free of both and know yourself, religion is born. Then truth is realized within you.

It is the realization of truth that makes you a saint. No one becomes a saint by rules, vows, fasts. The one who recognizes the truth enthroned within, who knows the indwelling deity—that one is a saint.

Saintliness brings many transformations: your conduct will change, your behavior will change, your vision will change. But all that follows; saintliness happens first.

Among these three rungs there is an order. One who cannot even be a scientist will not be able to be a poet. If you are incapable of understanding science, how will you soar to poetry’s heights? And one who cannot understand poetry—how will he understand mysticism, saintliness?

Saintliness is the experience of the witness. I am not the mind; I am not the heart; I am not the body. I am neither outside nor inside. I am beyond all dualities and all pairs of opposites! Where both are transcended. Where you know only pure consciousness—unfettered by thought or feeling. Where mathematics is gone and poetry too has fallen asleep. Where all is utterly still. Where the supreme silence has happened; because of that supreme silence we have called saints muni. Where the truth is realized; because of that realization we have called them saint. Where the mystery of life opens its doors and hides nothing from you—because you have become such a vessel that nectar can be poured into you, such that the inner lamp can be lit. The prayer of the Upanishadic rishi is fulfilled within you—Tamso ma jyotirgamaya! Asato ma sadgamaya! Mrityor ma amritam gamaya! You have come home. What you were seeking is found. Beyond this there is nothing more to attain.

This is man’s trimurti—science, poetry, religion. These are man’s three faces. Do not be bound to any one face. Know all three—and know yourself free of all three. To know is always to transcend. The knower never becomes an object; he remains the seer—there is no way to make the seer seen. Know this too. Then your journey is complete. Life’s pilgrimage reaches its last halt. Now you can rest. There is nowhere else to go, nothing more to attain. What is worth attaining has been attained; what is worth knowing has been known. A deep contentment arises.

And in that contentment, gratitude wells up toward the Divine—like fragrance rising from flowers; like incense, its perfumed smoke ascending to the sky; like a lamp’s flame leaping upward. In just such an ineffable way—beyond words—an expression of thankfulness arises in you. Words do not form; the head simply bows in gratitude!

This is the whole form of man as I see it. In my vision this is the human being of the future, whose advent is urgently awaited. If he does not come, the old human being has already rotted. The old human being is fragmented. One part has been seized by some, another by others. The West has grabbed science; the East has grabbed religion—both are half-dead, half-alive. The West is dying: there is body, money, position—but no soul. The East is dying: there is talk of soul, but the body is lost. There is meekness, poverty, starvation. The belly is hungry; how long can you talk of the soul? And however much wealth you have, if there is no soul—if you are not—your wealth will only remind you of your inner poverty. The West is outwardly rich, inwardly destitute; the East, in seeking inner richness, has accepted outer poverty.

This was the choice of fragments. It has been inauspicious.

Atheists concluded that matter is everything, God is nothing. Theists concluded that God is everything, matter is maya, unreal. Both have erred. The entire human race is suffering the consequences.

I take the atheism of the atheist and the theism of the theist. I want to unite the atheist and the theist within you. I want to bring East and West together. I want this earth to become one. And that will be possible only when man becomes whole within. Man can be whole; he ought to be; it is his destiny. Until he becomes whole, there will be pain, melancholy, sorrow.

My sannyasin will live in the world and in God as well. And he will adorn and refine the bridge between the two—of poetry, beauty, and love. Naturally, such a whole human being will be unacceptable to many. Atheists will oppose him; theists will oppose him. The religious will oppose him; the irreligious will oppose him. He will be criticized in the East and in the West. But despite all this criticism, the moment for the advent of the whole human being has arrived; now he cannot be stopped.

The old human being has decayed. His days are over. With the old religions, old doctrines, old scriptures, old traditions and ruts, we can go no further. We have dragged ourselves enough and created for ourselves many hells. I call to you: come out of that past! As a snake sheds its old skin and does not even look back, so too slip out of the old.

A new dawn is breaking! A new day is coming! The day of the new human being is coming! I proclaim the new human being! And you must become that new human being. You must be the first rays of that new man. You must give the new human being form, shape, reality.

Therefore my sannyasin carries a great responsibility. The old sannyasin was an escapee, fleeing all responsibility. My sannyasin holds the supreme responsibility. What greater responsibility can there be than that you become a womb for the birth of a new, original human being through you? That we may create a new world, an original world! This earth can become a paradise—if man is whole. And man can be whole. All three are present within you—just bring them together.

There is a Sufi story: in the house there is flour, rice, lentils, firewood, a stove, fire—and you sit hungry! Light the fire. Put the pot on the stove. Cook the rice. Mix water with the flour, add ghee, add salt; knead it; make bread; bake it. There is no reason to be hungry. Everything is present—and you sit! You neither light the fire nor put on the rice, nor knead the dough; you sit and weep! You sit and blame the world. You sit and complain against God. You sit and hold your karma responsible.

Enough of this nonsense. Neither your karmas hold you hostage, nor is God troubling you, nor is suffering written in your fate, nor has any deity fixed your future. Rise! Open your eyes! Everything has been given to you.

Only a little tuning is needed. If the veena’s strings are slack, tighten them a little; if too tight, loosen them a little. Bring them to the middle—neither taut nor loose—and music can arise.

Make the effort to awaken these three aspects in you together.

When you think about matter, be a scientist. That is why I do not agree with the Bible’s claim that the earth is flat. When you are thinking about matter, we should not consult the Bible at all. The Bible has no authority there. Ask the scientist. Do not go to Christ; go to Galileo.

But those who discovered that the earth is round—this does not mean they know who they are. Do not ask Galileo whether the soul exists. What has the roundness of the earth to do with knowing the soul? That you must ask Jesus.

And between Jesus and Galileo there are people as well—Kalidasa, Bhavabhuti, Khalil Gibran, Rabindranath. When you want to know about the in-between realm—neither day nor night, about twilight, about the hour when the dust of cows hangs in the air—then ask Rabindranath, ask Khalil Gibran, ask Mikhail Naimy. Ask those for whom poetry is the homeland.

All three are within you. Slowly, by asking within, recognize: where is your Galileo, where is your Rabindranath, where is your Jesus? You will find all three within. And the day these three join hands and embrace one another, a new human being will be born within you. For the first time you will be acquainted with your wholeness. And to know the whole is to know God.

Niranjan! People have long believed the danger comes from the atheist. But I tell you, there is no danger to religion from the atheist. The atheist is, in fact, on the search for religion. He is only saying, “I have not yet seen, I have not yet known—how can I believe?” The atheist is simply declaring his honesty. So what you have been told for centuries—that religion is threatened by the atheist—is wrong.

The danger is from the false believer. A true atheist, if not today then tomorrow, will become a true theist, because truth always leads to truth. One truth becomes the means to another truth. If your “no” is authentic, filled with integrity, then if not today, tomorrow your “yes” will also come—and it will be a “yes” filled with the same integrity.

But an accident has happened: people have become pseudo-believers. They never truly said “no,” and yet they say “yes.” Their “yes” is impotent. There is no strength in it, no truth in it. There is fear—not truth. Society has frightened them. They tremble at the thought of hell. They are greedy for heaven. There is fear, there is greed; but there is no search. Their theism is only conditioning. Because parents, priests, and society were bound to a particular belief, the same belief has been imposed on them.

If you take a child to a temple from early childhood… little children first refuse to bow before the images in a temple. But you keep forcing them to bow. You say it is religious training. You teach them prayers. Like parrots taught to say “Ram-Ram,” you make these children into parrots. Later they will even forget that what they learned to chant was mere rote. Fifty years on, they won’t even remember. Human memory is very weak. Fifty years later they will chant “Ram-Ram” as if they knew Ram. And they do not know at all; there is no knowing at the foundation. When you force children to bow before temple idols, later bowing becomes their habit.

A great Russian psychologist, Pavlov, discovered a principle he called the conditioned reflex—behavior determined by conditioning. He performed a small experiment that led him to this insight. One day he was feeding his dog bread. Many discoveries happen accidentally; so did this one. He placed the bread before the dog, the dog’s tongue hung out, and saliva began to drip. Suddenly a thought flashed in Pavlov’s mind: salivating on seeing bread makes sense, but could salivation be produced by something that has no connection with food?

He tried something. Whenever he gave the dog bread, he rang a bell. He kept ringing the bell; the dog kept salivating. The dog would eat, he would ring the bell. He did this for fifteen days without fail. On the sixteenth day he did not give bread; he only rang the bell—and the saliva began to flow.

There is, of course, no real connection between a bell and salivation. Saliva on seeing bread is understandable: the dog is hungry, the aroma of bread fills his nostrils; the bread is so near—now it will be received, now! In that eager anticipation, saliva flows. Even if you merely think of a lemon, salivation starts in your mouth. The very word “lemon” can bring saliva. The word itself has no power to produce saliva. But the bell rings—and it happens!

Pavlov rang the bell, the dog salivated. He repeated the experiment in many ways and finally concluded that we can yoke any two things together.

Take a child to the temple every day and make him bow before the image; today he will refuse, tomorrow he will bow a little, the day after a little more. He will see his father bow, he will see the respected people of the village bow; see them bowing with feeling; he himself will begin to imitate, and he too will bow.

People believe in God, so children too will believe. A Muslim’s child will become a Muslim. He will feel reverence before a mosque, not before a temple. This is simply Pavlov’s principle. A Hindu child will feel great reverence before a Hindu temple. That reverence is false. A Jain will feel an immediate impulse to bow before Mahavira’s image. That feeling is completely false.

Niranjan, it is from these false believers that religion is in danger. They have ruined religion—and they continue to ruin it. You will find them everywhere: in churches, temples, gurudwaras. The whole earth is full of them.

A true theist is a very rare thing. A true atheist is already rare; a true theist is rarer still. Now even false atheists have been produced—in Russia and China. At least in the old days, if there weren’t true theists, there were true atheists. Now even a true atheist is hard to find! In Russia and China even atheism is taught via Pavlov’s principle. From childhood they are taught: “God does not exist, never did; it’s a false notion.” Children begin to repeat it.

Children repeat what parents repeat—just as they learn the language their parents speak. If parents speak two languages, children learn two; if three, then three. A child’s behavior is a reflection of the parents’. The parents learned from their parents, who learned from theirs. Thus centuries keep teaching each other. Lies become tradition.

If religion is to be saved, the world first needs true atheists. Out of true atheists, true theism arises. You may be startled to hear me, because you have been told so often that the theist and the atheist are enemies that you have stopped examining it; you have accepted it without question.

I want to tell you: the theist and the atheist are not enemies; they are two sides of the same coin. And one who has never, in the true sense, been an atheist can never, in the true sense, be a theist.

First, the capacity to say “no” must arise. In “no” there is rebellion, revolution. In “no” there is the declaration of your individuality, the proclamation of your freedom. First, learn to say “no.” Through “no” we destroy the conditionings imposed by society. Through “no” we free ourselves from Pavlov’s principle—as if Pavlov rings the bell and the dog says, “No! The saliva will not flow! What do you take me for? You start ringing a bell and assume I will go on drooling? Enough. Ring all you like, but no saliva!”

If Pavlov’s dog could say, “No salivation—ring as you will,” know that consciousness has been born in that dog. Know the dog has begun to become human, that it has grown wings, that now it can fly. Pavlov himself would be amazed if the dog said, “No, enough. You will not trick me anymore by ringing a bell to make me drool!”

The first truth is: no. Because through “no” we are freed from the futile. “No” cuts away the rubbish. “No” is the sword by which we cut every bondage. The web of doctrines woven around us—by “no” we shatter it.

Therefore I tell my sannyasins: first learn the dignity of “no,” the joy of negation. Do not be afraid; do not panic. For one who can say “no” will, if not today then tomorrow, also say “yes.” Behind “no,” “yes” arrives. And then its beauty is different, then its aliveness is different, then its glory is different. When the one who could say “no” says “yes,” that “yes” has a soul in it—commitment and trust. In that “yes” is the protection of religion.

I would like the world to be given atheism—not Russian or Chinese atheism, not taught atheism—but the opportunity for an untaught, natural atheism. No child needs to be force-fed any belief. Trust. The child has a soul, curiosity, intelligence; he will search. Encourage searching—do not hand out doctrines. Arouse inquiry—do not give scriptures. Shake him, raise question marks—but do not supply answers. Tell him, “Ask—ask deeply. Search your whole life. Stake your life on the search.” Then perhaps you will be blessed, and truth may be realized.

This earth needs a spontaneous atheism. Religion should not be handed to children. I am completely against religious education. Do not take children to temples or mosques. And if you must take them, then take them to temples and mosques and churches and gurudwaras—so the child is not bound to any one notion. Take him everywhere. Tell him: “There are so many kinds of people, so many kinds of prayers, so many kinds of temples, so many kinds of worship. See it all; become familiar with all. There is no hurry to choose.”

Even when a man goes to the market to buy a clay pot worth two coins, he taps and tests it. And you have accepted even God without any tapping or testing! You have adopted the supreme principles of life without thinking, without examining! As a goldsmith tests gold on a touchstone, so too everything must be tested. Everyone should have a touchstone. Reflect, feel, meditate, observe. What is the hurry? If you grab some doctrine in haste, your hands will end up full of trash.

So, Niranjan, the danger is not from the atheist; the danger is from the false believer—and now also from the false atheist. The danger is from falsehood; whether it belongs to the theist or the atheist—what difference does that make! Religion’s protection lies in truth. And truth comes through inquiry, search, exploration—through an inner adventure.

Here I give you no doctrine, no scripture. I am only kindling your inquiry. I am stoking a fire within you. Whatever I am saying is fuel—so that your inner fire may blaze, blaze so fiercely that no smoke remains, only fire, only live coals! One day you will see those embers turning into flowers—the same glowing embers becoming radiant blossoms. One whose inquiry is intense, who is ready to offer everything to that inquiry—whose curiosity has become a deep longing—only he knows the aura of religion; only he experiences it.

Religion is endangered by false believers and false atheists. In this country there are not many false atheists; that is why I speak of false believers. If I spoke in Russia or China—though there it is impossible; I am not allowed to enter; my books go there only by stealth—then I would speak of false atheism. The books have found their way! People in Russia are reading them—but secretly. Perhaps they read them hidden inside the covers of books by Karl Marx or Lenin! Letters reach me; people long to come.

One woman has written to me that she is willing to marry any Indian if only she can get a chance to live in the ashram and somehow escape Russia.

They cannot even send letters directly because mail is censored in Russia. And if it is censored there, so be it; but letters addressed to me are also censored in India. A letter posted from Delhi takes thirty to thirty-five days to reach Poona because it is examined in several offices! Postal officials have even admitted that it is true: letters are opened and read. And even then, whether all letters reach here is doubtful. Many write asking what happened to their letters; those letters never arrived.

Letters from Russia are even harder to get through. Still, people find a way. Those who have to write from Russia give their letters to travelers going to London or New York to post from there. So letters do reach me; but from here there seems no way to get replies back to them.

If I were speaking in Russia or China, I would say: false atheism. But in India, and in those countries where pseudo-belief prevails everywhere, I say to you: false belief is the greatest obstacle. And the priests and pundits who spread pseudo-belief—your so-called hollow saints—are enemies of religion.

When first I saw you,
I bowed in devotion
and laid my future at your feet.
You blessed me
and kept my future.
Then I gave you my talent.
You granted me a boon
and took my talent.
Then I offered you my power.
You were silent,
yet you accepted my power.
Waiting for siddhi,
with eyes closed an age passed.
Then I saw you again:
You were unmoving, statue-like—
no,
you were a statue!
Then who bestowed the blessings and the boons?
And then for the first time
I looked at your priests
who, behind your cover,
were enjoying
my future, my talent, my power!
I am free now,
for the knowledge of one’s condition is freedom.
But O deity!
If you are not mere stone,
then protect yourself from your priests!

Temples, mosques, gurudwaras, churches—these have become the dens of pundits and priests, padres and popes. They are the greatest danger, for they spread poison! They not only spread false notions and force people into a fake religiosity; they also set people against each other, spread enmity, hatred, riots. Temples and mosques pit people against one another. Religion must be saved from them.

Religion can create something unparalleled on this earth. It has immense creative potential because religion is your very nature. Religion is the law that runs this cosmos. Religion is not a person, and it is not tied to a personal God. Believe in God or not—as you wish. God is not a person; he is the thread hidden in the garland of life—the thread that holds the moon and stars together, that is green in the blade of grass and crimson in the rose, that rises in the morning sun and showers silver in the moonlit night—that ultimate law of life. Esa dhammo sanantano! That eternal dharma can be recovered. We can relate to it. If we join with it, our life fills with incomparable joy, becomes full of light. Darkness falls away, sorrow and suffering are cut off, death dissolves, anxiety departs.

But a great horde of priests stands between it and us. Their interest lies precisely in preventing people from becoming religious.

You will be startled to hear me, because you think they are trying to make people religious. I tell you again and again: they do not want you to become religious. Your becoming religious would destroy their entire business. Their business exists only so long as you are not religious. Their trade is a dangerous one. Those whose livelihood depends on your irreligiosity are certainly lethal.

I have heard: one night some people came to a tavern. They drank heartily, danced, sang songs. At midnight, when they were leaving, the tavern owner said to his wife, “If such customers came every day, our fortune would open! How generous they were! How freely they spent! Such customers I never saw before!” To the one who had paid, the owner said, “Brother, do come once in a while.”

The man said, “Pray to God for us; pray that our business goes well; then we will come daily! Not just occasionally—morning and evening we will come. But our business must go well. Pray for that.”

The tavern keeper said, “Of course, we will pray. But tell me, what is your business?”

The man replied, “Better you don’t ask. I sell firewood at the cremation ground. If people keep dying, our business runs. The more people die, the better our business. Right now the ‘season’ is on! All kinds of diseases are spreading in the village; people are dying every day. If people keep dying, wood keeps selling, pyres keep burning—we’ll come every day—morning and evening!”

There are some whose business runs on people’s deaths! A dangerous trade. The priests’ business runs on your irreligiosity. Because if you become religious, why would you go to the temple?

The Sufi Bayazid went to the mosque all his life. He never missed a day. Fever or illness—still he would go, and offer all five prayers. The village had grown accustomed to it. One day when he did not come, those who had come to the mosque thought, “He must have died in the night.” He had grown old. They could think only that he had died; because in every other condition he came—so long as he breathed. They finished their prayers quickly and ran to Bayazid’s hut, which stood under a tree at the edge of the village. He was sitting under the tree, plucking his ektara, utterly ecstatic!

The villagers said, “Bayazid, have you lost your mind—or in old age have you become an atheist? A kafir—after a lifetime of prayers? Why didn’t you come to the mosque today? We thought you were dead.”

Bayazid said, “I used to go to the mosque because I had no clue of God. Now I have found his trace. Why should I go to the mosque? Now, wherever I am, there is God. Why should I recite the namaz? This ektara is my namaz. The birds singing on the tree—this is my namaz. And do you see this fresh morning breeze and these new rays of the sun—this is my namaz. I won’t come now. Keep your mosque. I used to pray five times because I didn’t know one could be in prayer twenty-four hours. Now I know. Now my eyes have opened.”

Who would perform a Satyanaarayan katha if there is truth in your life? In which there is neither satya nor Narayan—nothing at all! If there is truth in your life, you are Satyanaarayan. If the experience of Ram is within you, would you go to watch a Ramleela? These childish games! Would you join Ram’s wedding procession? Get entangled in toys? Offer flowers to a stone idol? A stone image you yourself have made or had made—will you fold your hands and bow before it?

No—this all becomes impossible. The priest’s trade can run only so long as the earth is irreligious. It is in their interest; it is their vested interest.

Niranjan, the greatest danger to religion is the priest. We do not need priests or pundits. We need the inquisitive, the seekers, the explorers. We need lovers. We need courageous people with the capacity to experience life. We need those who will not get entangled in imaginary theories, but will seek the divine in the reality of life.

If you dig into life’s reality, just as one who digs a well eventually finds water, so, digging into the reality of life, sooner or later you find the divine. The more urgency, intensity, and totality in your search, the sooner the divine is found. And when you find it, you will laugh—for you will be astonished: what you were searching for far away was near! And what you sought outside has always been enthroned within you!

Premanand! This is exactly what I keep saying—there is a salaam that comes from conditioning, and there is a salaam that is born of experience. You must have offered salaam, namaskar to the Divine since childhood—but it was formal, mere etiquette. Others were doing it, so you too were doing it. It carried no sound of your life-breath. It had no throb of your heart. It was dead.

Now, having entered sannyas, you have been startled awake. The same salaam—and yet not the same. The word is the same, but you have changed. You changed, and the word changed. Now there is a flavor in your salaam.

You say: a kind of ecstasy! Yes, now your salaam is wine. Now your salaam is a stream of nectar. Now in your salaam there is the very truth that must have been in Muhammad’s salaam, in Mansoor’s salaam, in Bahauddin’s, in Jalaluddin’s. The same ecstasy, the same wine, the same intoxication, the same rapture! Now, for the first time, you have come into a mosque. The mosques you had gone to were built by priests and pundits. Now, for the first time, you have arrived at a pilgrimage place—a living shrine!

The Kaaba now is stone. When Muhammad was, even that stone had life. Muhammad’s presence infused life into that stone. It was his presence that made the stone come alive. Here, the Kaaba that is, is living. Ecstasy will come, and it will come in abundance! A flood will come! This is only the beginning.

You say: I have said salaam since childhood, but when I did it here, a kind of ecstasy came. Tears came and laughter too!
That is significant. If only tears come, they come from sorrow. If only laughter comes, it comes from happiness. But when tears and laughter come together, the state of witnessing is born. For then you cannot say “I am crying,” nor can you say “I am laughing.” You are simply seeing both; you cannot identify with either.

This happens in the depths of meditation, when crying and laughing arise together. And why together? They come together because there are tears for all the wandering till now; and there is laughter because there never was any need to wander even for a single moment. Tears that what you had been seeking so long was not found; laughter that, without seeking, it is found. It was already found; it has always been present—sitting within.

And when crying and laughing come together, witnessing springs up by itself. That is why people call the paramahansas “mad.” Because only two kinds of people laugh and cry at the same time: the madman, and the paramahansa.

The madman has fallen below the mind; he no longer keeps accounts of what he is doing. Everything is disordered. If he is laughing, he doesn’t see he shouldn’t be crying—he lacks even that much logical sense. If he is crying, he doesn’t see he shouldn’t be laughing—no such calculation remains. Everything is jumbled, mixed together. Distinctions are lost because he has fallen below the discriminating intellect. And the paramahansa too laughs and cries.

Premanand, in the paramahansa there is something of the madman—something! In one respect they are alike: both are free of the intellect. The paramahansa has risen above the mind; the madman has fallen below it. The madman no longer has enough mind to discern when to cry and when to laugh, that laughter and crying are opposites and should not happen together—he lacks that awareness. And in the paramahansa there is so much awareness that his identification is broken; he cannot become one with laughter, nor with tears. He sees both; he is merely the witness of both.

Premanand, auspicious it is. Let it happen. Don’t stop it. When such ecstasy arrives, a nervousness can also arise—What will people say? There is fear that if someone sees you crying and laughing together, they will think you mad!

No, drop the concern! This is a congregation of madfolk anyway. Here no one is taking care of anyone else. Here each is diving within himself. So sometimes a few sannyasins come and tell me that one thing feels very strange in this ashram—that people are each absorbed in themselves, as if no one cares about anyone else! It shouldn’t be like this, they say.

They don’t know yet. I tell them, wait a little; it will happen to you too. This “disease” will catch you as well.

To be absorbed in oneself is enough. The relish people take in one another is in fact a relish for interfering in one another. Who is laughing, who is crying, who is doing what—people stay terribly eager about these things! They have no news of themselves and go about broadcasting the news of the whole world.

Don’t be anxious. Let the ecstasy grow. Let the intoxication deepen. Let the wine sink down. Cry, and laugh. Dance, and sit in silence. Let meditation and love keep happening together.

You wrote: “My being blossomed!”
It will blossom. This is precisely how the flower of life-breath opens.

“You wrote: ‘I felt like kissing your feet; to bow—bow—and keep on bowing.’”
Premanand, I can see it already; that bowing is happening. You are bowing day by day. You are dissolving day by day. You came only a little while ago. But now the one within you is no longer the one who came. The advent of the new has begun. I see new shoots emerging. Spring has come into your life.

You say: “Thank you!”
Whenever you offer thanks, offer it to the Divine. All gratitude is His. If in my vicinity, in my presence, in my nearness something happens, remember always—I am only an instrument, merely a vehicle. Just a postman. I deliver your letter to Him, and His letter to you. Thank Him! But I have understood your feeling. After all, even if you send your thanks to Him, you will send it through me, won’t you? Premanand, I will deliver it.

Gyan Ranjan! A dangerous thing like marriage should always be done by others’ choice. There’s one benefit in that: tomorrow, at least you will always have someone else to blame! The one who does it by his own choice gets into real difficulty; there’s not even anyone left to put the blame on!

That’s why the “wise” decided long ago that parents should arrange the marriage—because, in the end, someone will have to be blamed. One trouble is marriage itself—and on top of that, if the responsibility is yours too, the burden becomes too heavy. Parents share the burden; they say, “You can abuse us later.” When anger comes and life becomes very heavy, at least you’ll have this relief: “We didn’t step into this mess on our own; our parents roped us in.”

Marriage means turmoil!

Mulla Nasruddin received a telegram. His wife had gone on a Haj pilgrimage. She died on the way, and the wire said, “Nasruddin, what should we do? Shall we bury your wife according to Muslim custom? But we’ve heard you’ve put on ochre robes and become a sannyasin—so is it that you want her to be cremated? Some Hindus also float their dead in the rivers. So what do you want—should she be buried, burned, or set afloat?”

Mulla Nasruddin wired back: “Do all three. Don’t take any chances!” Do all three—because it isn’t wise to leave any chance of her coming back!

Gyan Ranjan, if you are stepping into such a hazard, it’s good to do so under the counsel of the wise. The danger is guaranteed.

Dhabbuji said to Chandulal, “Congratulations, Chandulal—today is the luckiest day of your life.”
“But my wedding is tomorrow,” said Chandulal.
“That’s exactly why I said today,” Dhabbuji replied. “Today is the luckiest day of your life! After that you’ll writhe, you’ll weep, you’ll remember!”

Chandulal’s wife was ill; Chandulal too was ill. Neither looked likely to recover. The doctor came to see Chandulal. After examining him, the doctor said, “Chandulal, there’s some old ailment dogging you, destroying your health and mental peace.”
“Doctor,” Chandulal whispered, “a little softer please! The one you’re talking about is sleeping on the bed in the next room!”

Why marry at all? Marriage itself is an antiquated, worn-out notion. Gyan Ranjan, if there is love for someone, live with them. If there isn’t love for anyone, live alone. Wait.

People can’t live alone; and they can’t live with someone either! Alone, loneliness cuts; with someone, the other’s presence becomes a nuisance. The married think the unmarried are blessed; the unmarried think the married are blessed!

This world is strange. Whatever one has, that is what makes one miserable; and what one doesn’t have—but someone else does—that is where one’s hope gets stuck.

You asked a question about marriage; the question itself is meaningless. Love! And if love itself matures into marriage, fine. If love gives you the sense that being with someone for life would be joyful, then stay with them for life.

Marriage, as it’s usually understood, implies: there is no love—so whose choice should decide the wedding, yours or the family’s? “Choice” here means you’ve turned marriage into some kind of exhibition. And in this country that’s almost how it has become. Girls are put on display! What will you “choose”? You go to see a girl; she serves a meal. If you’re very educated, you sit and talk for two minutes. What will you know from that? You might look at the nose and features; you might gauge a bit of body proportion, complexion and looks. But life is decided by none of these. Complexion, features—all become old in two days. Life is determined by that inner, hidden personality. Sometimes very ordinary faces hold extraordinary souls; and sometimes very beautiful faces hide very ugly souls. How will you choose?

It cannot be a “selection.” Before marriage what is needed is acquaintance, not choosing—deep acquaintance! If a year, two years, four years of knowing someone brings you to the point where you feel yes, living a lifetime together will be joyful and blissful, then it is neither a matter of “choice” nor of the family’s will. Then marriage is only a formality to be observed because you live in society, among others.

If you are living in my commune, even that formality need not be observed. The marriage ceremony is maintained only to ensure the husband doesn’t run away tomorrow. You have to bring in the law—police, magistrates, courts—so that if today everything is fine but tomorrow he runs off, then what? What about the children?

If you belong to my commune, Gyan Ranjan, then there is nothing to worry about. The way I see the world and the future, I see a great future for communes. The old family has rotted. We now need a new kind of family—the commune. The responsibility for children will be the commune’s. Children will belong to the commune, not to individuals. If husband and wife separate, it’s not a big problem. The children can stay with the father or the mother; responsibility will be the commune’s.

And children should not be brought into the world until it is decided that you are utterly bonded to live together. Until then, having children is an irresponsible act. If you are not ready to live together for life, it is unseemly to get together and produce a child—because the child will be born of you and your wife; and if you cannot stay together, what will be the child’s condition? Half of him will be the mother, half you; those two halves will keep fighting within him—constant tug-of-war.

That is why there is so much inner conflict in people—“Should I do this or that?” One voice within says, “Do it!” Another says, “Don’t you dare!” Where do these two voices come from?

Carl Gustav Jung, a great Western psychologist, rediscovered an ancient principle: within every man there is a woman, and within every woman a man—because every man and woman is born of the union of a woman and a man. Your mother lives within you; your father lives within you. And if they did not get along, then the personality within you, born of their union, will also always be in fragments—conflicted, hindered.

If we want children in the world with inner harmony, then before that harmony the mother and father must come into harmony. Therefore I generally do not tell my sannyasins to have children. I tell them: first go deep into meditation, rise high in love. When both meditation and love have matured in your life, then bring children into the world. Those children will be unique. They will be heavenly.

Right now you weep over your children—and you yourselves are responsible. Every parent is found complaining about the children. And who is responsible? A tree is known by its fruit. You will be known by your children.

If there is no hurry to have children, you can manage quite long without marriage. And the longer you can, the better. When the attunement is perfectly set—not an oil-and-water kind of mix, but like milk and water, so blended that separation becomes difficult—only then give birth to children. Then there will be no reason for you to separate. And if by some coincidence a reason does arise, then gradually build communes and live in communes.

This commune of ours is just the first experiment; then we will spread such communes to all corners of the world. In many places a hundred, two hundred, four hundred, five hundred, a thousand, five thousand sannyasins will live together—collective living! No personal property, no individual claims over children—“These are mine.” Real communism will come into the world through the expansion of communes, not through communist parties. Through communist parties only dictatorship can come—a crude dictatorship in which democracy is murdered and people’s souls are destroyed.

Communes must spread. The word “communism” comes from “commune.” Communes must spread. Slowly, communes should multiply across the earth—on mountains, in forests—small communes growing larger. The joy of commune life should be such that others too come and join.

To join a commune means: you relinquish all your old personal notions, you drop the ego.

Gyan Ranjan, if you can come here, then there is no need for any “choice,” nor any question of the family’s will. But if you cannot come here, then get married by the family’s choice. You’ll have a lifelong benefit: you can abuse your parents! And your mind will feel satisfied, even gratified—“They really trapped me! They went down themselves, and dragged me down too!” And if you want to take revenge on them, then trap your own children in the same way.

Sahajanand! People give what they have; I give what I have. We are doing the same kind of work. My compulsion is—I cannot give poison. Their compulsion is—they cannot give nectar. We are both compelled. Forgive us both.

I am not angry with them. Seeing that they give poison, compassion arises in my heart—for they have nothing but poison! How could they not be living in hell, if whenever they open their mouths only abuses come out? If whenever they extend themselves, only thorns emerge? What must their inner world of anguish be like! What torment, worry, restlessness, tension must be within them! How much trouble they must be in! Otherwise, do abuses come so easily? Whatever appears on your surface springs from your innermost core.

As for my distributing nectar: let me remind you again, it is not mine. Nothing is mine now. Whatever is, belongs to the Divine. And whatever belongs to the Divine is infinite; it never comes to an end. The more you share it, the more it grows. I am only humming; the song is His.

Taking shelter in someone else’s song,
now you have learned to hum.
With you, waterfalls are singing;
clouds of your glory are gathering.
Somewhere, even prayer is held in check,
somewhere, body and mind are being poured out.
Do not squander the treasure of your fragile sleep;
now you have learned to adorn your dreams.

Not every monsoon can be stilled;
moisture does not enter stone.
The sky, day and night, showers meteors—
there is no lessening of the stars.
Do not, out of weariness with the dark, close your eyes;
you have learned how to light a lamp.

Whose eyes have never seen dreams shatter?
When has anyone’s beloved never been lost?
In the name of nectar I have drunk poison—
yet my lips have not been defiled.
Do not explain the intent of your silence;
you have learned to weave words.

Here, everyone knows you—
unacquainted, yet they recognize you.
If I call a bud the Ganges of fragrance,
the crooked thorns take it as evil.
Do not bind sadness between your eyelids;
now you have learned to smile.

What of us—whether we ever quicken or not?
What of you—whether you ever thirst or not?
The rain-bird lifted the night upon its head;
the clouds were strangers—whether they rained or not.
Do not count the straws of an unfinished nest;
you have learned how to bring down lightning.

I am humming; the song is not mine. And now you too have learned to hum, Sahajanand. Hum! But never, even by mistake, think the song is yours. The moment you think the song is yours, the doors close. The moment you think, “The song is mine,” the flute is blocked.

The sky, day and night, showers meteors—
there is no lessening of the stars.

Meteors keep falling, yet the number of stars does not diminish. The Divine has been showering—through Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Kabir, Jesus, Muhammad. Nothing has become less. For centuries it has poured; for centuries it will continue.

You drink! Why worry whether the bliss I am sharing, the nectar I am sharing, might ever run out! Perhaps you are afraid it may be exhausted. Drink! Do not be miserly in drinking! The Giver has a thousand hands. You too hold out your bowl with a thousand hands.

Do not, out of weariness with the dark, close your eyes;
you have learned how to light a lamp.

And Sahajanand, the time has come for you, too, to light a lamp. You too should sing; you too should play the tambourine. What I am giving you is not mine. Learn to give what I give you. Because the more you share, you will be astonished—the more it grows; when you hold it back, it diminishes.

Whose eyes have never seen dreams shatter?
When has anyone’s beloved never been lost?
In the name of nectar I have drunk poison—
yet my lips have not been defiled.

And do not worry. If I am abused, if people keep offering me poison, it makes no difference. Even then my lips are not defiled. If you drink poison in a mood of bliss, it turns into nectar. If you accept abuses with love, they become song. There is a way, an art, of embracing thorns—and then even thorns change, becoming flowers. There are those who turn flowers into thorns; and there are those who turn thorns into flowers. It all depends on you.

Understand life as an art. And the key to this art is this: turn nights into days; light lamps in the darkness; seek music even in the hubbub. Then even if you touch clay, it will turn to gold. And as poison comes toward you, it will begin to turn into nectar; by the time it reaches within you, it will have become nectar.

This supreme alchemy is what I call samadhi. And you have gathered here to learn this supreme alchemy. Do not depart without learning it.

Enough for today.